


Cute Little Heartbreaker

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blow Job, Cunnilingus, F/M, Innuendo, Intense Flirting, Killian drinks rum, Killian has a talented mouth, Killian plays guitar, Killian sings, bailbondsperson, predator emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 06:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8522620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: Emma Swan is a vagabond. She never stays in a place longer than for six months. The night before the first day at her new job, she decides she needs a little distraction and walks into a bar looking for a one-night-stand and finds her object of choice in a good-looking guitar player. From that moment on, nothing goes as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

She walks into the bar like a pantheress on the hunt, smooth her steps and elegant the moves of her limbs. And the sway of her hips? Nothing short of dangerous. The red dress she's wearing combined with the predatory look in her green eyes is a flashing warning signal and an irresistible lure at the same time. She sits down on a bar stool and orders a whisky, then turns around to scan the room for prey. The bar is not snobbish and not tacky either, and the customers are an interesting amalgamate of all sorts. Just her kind of bar.

While she takes a sip from her whisky, she lets her gaze sweep slowly across the men, but soon she thinks it might just not be her lucky night, because she sees nothing – no one – that tickles her fancy. That is, until she sees him.

He's sitting on a backless stool placed on a small pedestal across the room, a guitar resting on his left thigh, and his posture alone catches her attention. He holds himself upright, even though his head is bent down a little over the instrument so that the most part of his features is hidden from her scrutiny. His right foot secured on the floor, he taps the dark wood in the rhythm of his fingers moving over the strings as melodious accords are quietly pearling from his instrument. Her interest is definitely piqued. She takes another sip of her whisky and watches in fascination how concentrated he seems on his music, like he doesn't notice there's anyone else besides him in the room. His dark hair is falling over his forehead, mostly obstructing her view of his face which has her shifting on her seat impatiently, but then he raises his head to let his gaze wander over the crowd while his tunes get a bit louder.

His face is sharply cut with a strong jawline and a classic nose, and the slight dark ginger scruff peppering his cheeks and jaw matches the auburn highlights in his hair. His lips are full and gorgeously curved, but not looking too soft or feminine. That already would make him attractive enough to catch her attention, but what really slays her are his eyes. They are of a special shade of blue, reminding her of summer skies and forget-me-nots, and even from the distance she can see it's the type of eyes she could easily get lost in. Framed by scandalously long black lashes a few women she knows would murder for and with thick eyebrows sitting over them, these eyes have something intense about them, and he isn't even looking at her. She feels the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle and draws in a deep breath while her hormones are starting to take over and sing seductively into her ears what she already knows: there's her prey of choice for tonight.

If she's had any reservations about that, they're pulverized when he opens his mouth – and fuck, that is a kissable mouth if she ever saw one – and leans a little forward towards the mic positioned in front of him. She just knows his voice will be low and smooth and husky, and she isn't disappointed when the first lyrics tumble from his lips:

“You know you're a  
Cute little heartbreaker – foxy”

His eyes are sweeping across the room while he breathes out the words in a suggestive voice, a little matching smirk curving his lips as he continues.

“You know you're a   
Sweet little lovemaker – foxy”

Fuck, she thinks and isn't sure for a moment if she hasn't said the word out loud. Well, looks like her luck has just changed, and she's completely riled up already when he gets to the part that seems to speak to her baser nature.

“I'm gonna take you home  
I won't do you no harm, no  
You've got to be mine, all mine”

She's almost relieved when he gets to the part of the guitar solo, because hearing his voice sing those suggestive lyrics in that seductive timbre is almost too much – damn, she's all flustered, and she hasn't even spoken to him yet. Now, she can't wait for the song to end, hoping it's his last performance of the night. Well, at least with a guitar, that is.

Her prayers are answered, because after the song ends, he gets up from his stool and, after the cheers have subsided, makes his way through the people, smiling left and right. She notices the swagger in his step and that he's wearing really tight black jeans and that he fills them quite well, and this is just getting better and better. The dark grey henley he's wearing has two of its three top buttons casually undone, and a respectable, but not too abundant amount of chest hair peeks out. Subconsciously, she licks her lips and watches him walk to the side entrance to the counter where he disappears for a second when he bends down to retrieve the guitar case from behind the counter. His jeans tighten even a little more over his taut backside, and she grins to herself in appreciation, sliding off of her seat at the other end of the bar. The time for sneaking up on the prey has come.

He places the case down on two stools and tucks his guitar away carefully.

“Done for today?” the bartender asks.

“Yeah, I think,” he replies and closes the case, bending down again to deposit it behind the counter. “Stow her away for me, will you?” Oh Lord help her, is that an English accent?

“Sure.”

She has walked up to him and steps between the two stools, casually leaning against the counter and smirking a little in anticipation before she addresses him, "Beer or whisky?"

He turns around, surprise on his face, and eyes her up and down, his eyes widening appreciatively for a moment before he frowns and tilts his head in confusion. "Excuse me, love?"

God, from close up he's even more attractive... and really, love? She licks her lips. "Beer or whisky," she repeats slowly and enjoys the mesmerized way his gaze falls on her lips, like a moth drawn to the flame. "If I were to buy you a drink, which one would you prefer?"

"Oh..." It takes him a moment to snap out of it, obviously, but then he looks into her eyes, and she has problems concentrating on his words. Her earlier feeling was right – his eyes are indeed of the sort that make you weak in the knees just looking into them. "Rum, actually,” he then says and adds with a raise of his eyebrow, “But normally, I'm the one to buy the drinks."

She waves her hand nonchalantly, in an unspoken invitation. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Hmm," he hums and tilts his head again, scrutinizing her closely for a moment, and his move gives her the opportunity to admire his neck, long and solid, strong cords smoothly moving beneath skin her fingers itch to touch. She feels delicious heat build up under his gaze. "A woman who uses nautical language,” he comments, “that's always appealing."

She smirks. "I have many qualities."

"Do you, now?" he murmurs slowly, his voice dropped to a low timbre that makes her nerves vibrate. He turns to her, his interest obviously piqued, and rests his elbow on the top of the counter, fidgeting absentmindedly with his fingers. The gesture is very distracting and, honestly, quite hot. Obviously, he's not yet done scrutinizing her; in a very weird and intense way it's like he's ridding her of every layer she's covered herself with, but not in a physical way. He's not ogling her, and his eyes leave her face not even once to sweep over her figure, he doesn't even take a peek at her cleavage. This is not what she expected, and it makes her feel exposed, like he's looking right into her soul. And that's fucking not as it should be – no one's supposed to go there, to read her like she's an open book; and there's something about those blue eyes that makes her think he's way too good at doing exactly that. The impression makes her deeply nervous, because it should be the other way round: she should be the snake, and he the hypnotized prey.

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. "Why don't you see for yourself?" Deliberately, she gives her voice an extra cocky undertone, and it seems to be working, because he blinks, and that breaks a bit of the spell. She releases a relieved breath she doesn't even realize she's held.

"Have a rum with me?" he asks, and she knows he just rose to the bait.

Yet, she shakes her head once. "I don't do that Captain Morgan stuff, sorry,” she tells him, “I'd prefer–"

"Neither do I," he interrupts in an amused voice and runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, "I only do the good stuff." His eyes rest on hers again, and she isn't sure she heard right, because she'll be damned if that isn't flirting of the juiciest kind. Heat is coursing through her body now, her skin tingling in eager anticipation of what the night has in store.

“Bring it,” she finally replies in a husky voice, and for a moment, there's an almost roguish glint in his eyes that promises dark, delicious things. Damn, if he lives up to only half of it, she's so screwed; she almost giggles at the thought, because that's exactly the point why she came to this place tonight, after all.

Then, her almost-giggle dies a quiet death in her throat before even having a chance to bubble up, because he turns to the bartender and raises two fingers of his right hand. Her mouth is still dry, and she has to swallow again, unable to pry her stare away from his hand. Always a sucker for beautiful hands on a man, she has been fascinated already earlier by the way his fingers danced over the strings of his guitar, so effortlessly and smoothly and barely touching them, until she gently wept. Meanwhile, his left held the guitar neck securely, fingers firmly pressing down on the chords in just the right way to set the tone. Now, seeing those hands from close up, she can't help but admire their bone structure – the fingers long, but not too slender, the hand broad enough to convey an impression of strength combined with sensuality. A fine dusting of dark hair on the back adds to the masculinity, and she'll be damned if she isn't going to have those fingers on – better yet, inside of – her tonight. 

His voice makes her snap out of her desire-filled haze, but only for exactly one second, before things get even worse. “Barceló,” he orders, and she shivers at the foreign sound of the word, the way he rolls the 'r' lazily over his tongue; it makes her think what other things he could do with that tongue, and fuck, she really needs that drink now. She's so distracted by him that she doesn't even notice when the bartender puts two tumblers with a liquid of warm brown color on the counter.

When she does, she reaches hastily for hers but he stops her from gulping the drink down by getting hold of her glass, laying his fingers on hers. A bolt of electricity shoots from where he touches her right to her core, and well, that escalated quickly. She looks up at him questioningly, and he explains, “You have to... savor it.” There's something about the way he pops the 't' that sounds like a dirty invitation, and she starts to wonder who's the predator here.

In short words, she's mesmerized by now and, yes, aroused as fuck. “Nice and slow, that's how you do it?” she asks breathlessly.

He tilts his head, not taking his eyes off of her, and she's delighted to see a devilish spark lurking in the blue depths. “Whenever it's required.” And she knows, she just knows, he's not talking about drinks. Then, much to her surprise and chagrin, he slows indeed down a bit and lets go of her drink and her fingers. “Killian Jones,” he introduces himself, “pleased to meet you.” He smiles and raises his glass.

She almost giggles because it sounds so ridiculously formal, but also somehow hot, but whom is she kidding, at this point everything that man could say or do is hot to her. She hesitates just for the blink of an eye before she raises her glass, too, touching it to his with a soft, clinking sound, and replies, “I'm... Ruby. Ruby Lucas.” It's a lie, of course, the name of an old friend, the first name that came to her mind. Her brain may be fogged by her lust and eagerness to get laid by this glorious man, but she surely still has the presence of mind not to give her real name to a one-night-stand-to-be. 

“Ruby,” he echoes slowly, thoughtfully. "Don't think I've ever seen you around?" He brings his tumbler slowly to his mouth to take a sip, his eyes again fixed on her in that unnervingly intense way, an unspoken question lingering in his voice and his look.

"You haven't," she replies smoothly, determined not to reveal anything unnecessary. He doesn't need to know anything about her that goes beyond her erogenous zones. "But you're here more often?" She shifts the focus away from herself and motions to the small podium near the bar where he just sat and caressed his guitar.

If he notices her evasiveness – and something tells her he does – he chooses to ignore it. "Two or three times a week," he answers without hesitation, "depends on my mood."

"Ah." She throws another flirty smile his way. "I sure hope your mood is good tonight."

“Indeed, it is.” He returns the smile, a little less lewd than she hoped. “And the night is young.” He motions to her glass. “Don't you want to try it?” he prompts.

She raises the glass to her lips and takes a careful, curious sip, letting the liquid roll over her tongue for a moment before she swallows. She's surprised at the warm, smooth taste that is nothing like she expected. It doesn't burn, bears almost a trace of sweetness, and after a few seconds a little burst of warmth explodes in her stomach. “It's good,” she tells him with surprise in her voice, and even though she doesn't want to, she finds his pleased little smile at her admission nothing short of adorable.

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrow – he seems to do that a lot, she notices, both of it – while he takes another sip. “See,” he comments, “maybe you should try something new more often.”

“I guess.” In spite of his little frown, she downs the rest of her rum and puts the glass back on the counter with a determined sound. “I'd like another one.”

“Already acquired a taste for it?” he asks in an amused voice and finishes his own drink, motioning to the bartender to give them two more.

“You're very convincing,” she comments and takes a step closer, right into his personal space. She's close enough to catch his scent, and fuck, he smells so good it makes her dizzy. There's a faint whiff of some spicy body wash that seems vaguely familiar, a trace of fresh sweat and a heady note of what must be his very own individual scent. Whatever it is, she can't seem to get enough of it, and she feels the urge to leave the bar and be alone with him.

“So I've been told,” he replies smoothly, and a mischievous little smile curls his perfect lips and creases the skin around his blue eyes.

The bartender puts two fresh drinks on the counter, and she doesn't take her eyes off of his when she reaches for her glass and raises it to him in an inviting gesture. “Nice and slow,” she almost purrs and enjoys the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows before he touches his glass to hers with a soft, almost intimate clinking sound. They both take a sip, and when he swipes his tongue across his bottom lip to catch a wayward droplet of liquid, she exhales audibly and closes her eyes, contemplating for a second to drag him to the restrooms, but then quickly dismisses the idea. She has a feeling that this guy – Killian Jones, she remembers and is surprised at herself, because normally she forgets their names as soon as she hears them – has more in store than is required for just a bathroom quickie. She assumes he's good for at least three orgasms, if his intense eye fucking is any indication, and yes, she needs him to put that wayward tongue to good use. And now, her impatience kicks in.

She finishes her drink and puts her empty glass on the counter with a determined move. “Let's leave,” she suggests without further ado.

His eyebrows twitch, and an inexplicable hint of confusion flickers over his face, but he nods and beckons the bartender near to pay for their drinks. It gives her the opportunity to study his profile, and she has to curl her fingers into a fist to stop herself from running them across his jawline; she can't wait to find out how the auburn scruff feels between her fingers... or between her thighs. The thought of getting a good scruff burn has never been so appealing. Without another word, she grabs her purse and walks towards the exit of the bar, and she doesn't have to throw a glance back over her shoulder to know that he's following. 

Between the main room and the actual exit is a little vestibule to keep out the chilly Boston night air, separated from the bar by a thick curtain. As soon as the heavy folds of the black curtain have fallen closed behind them, she assaults him, launching herself at him, swallowing his surprised gasp with her own mouth when he's pushed against the wall. She just can't help herself, she has to – needs to – take a sample of those lips that have taunted her since she saw them move to that song, and she isn't disappointed. His lips are soft, yet firm, and even though he acts like he's surprised, after a second he responds, and that doesn't disappoint either. He doesn't open up right away, but after she demands access by sweeping her tongue across his upper lip, he grants it, and she finds he tastes like heaven – not a smoker, she thinks appreciatively – and that impression is not only due to the aroma of the rum she can still taste in his mouth.

His demeanor is a little passive, but she feels her hand cup the back of her head while he kisses her back, and she's always been a sucker for a man doing that. Although she has the impression that he tries to keep his composure, at some point – somewhere between her sliding her hands around his waist and pressing her breasts against his chest – she feels a growl rumble deep in his chest, and that sound is probably the sexiest thing she's ever heard. She slants her mouth across his once more and then pulls back slowly, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth for a moment. 

When she releases it she notices he's breathing as heavily as she does, and he looks all disheveled and wrecked, and she wants more of this. His mouth is slightly open as he's staring at her lips, blinking rapidly, before he murmurs breathlessly, “That was...”

She smirks and sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “Just an appetizer,” she replies huskily and lets her hands glide slowly over his waist before taking a step back and motioning her head to the exit. “Come on,” she urges, “lead the way!”

“Where are we going?” he asks, quirking a confused eyebrow, and she shrugs nonchalantly.

“Wherever you car's parked,” she says, and he looks even more confused.

“But I thought... you wanted to go home?” 

She shakes her head once. “Your place, not mine. Sorry, but I never take anybody home.”

“My place?” he echoes, and this time it's evident that he isn't just playing the part of the surprised gentleman or whatever this is supposed to be; he's clearly startled, which surprises her, because his earlier flirting didn't give her the impression that he wasn't up to turning rhetoric into action. She sees his blue, blue eyes widen when it dawns on him, almost adorable in his cluelessness. “You mean you intend to–“

“Well, what do you think we were doing?” she interrupts in an amused voice. Normally, it doesn't do anything for her when a guy is adorable, but that combination of drop-dead sexy and adorable... oh, the things it does to her.

He tilts his head. “Having a few drinks and a good time?” he suggests dryly.

She snorts a pleased little laugh. “The good time's yet to come, trust me.” 

And then he surprises her when he tells her, “I thought I'd pick you up tomorrow.” 

She's taken aback. “What for?” she asks bluntly.

He motions his hand vaguely between them. “Dinner. Or drinks, whatever you prefer.” 

What the hell is he even talking about? Slowly, a feeling of discomfort crawls under her skin. “We just had drinks,” she retorts casually, “isn't that enough foreplay for you?” 

There's the eyebrow raise again, combined with a determined crinkling of his nose, like the slightest trace of annoyance brushes him. “Just so you know,” he tells her pointedly, “I do appreciate an extended foreplay.” And there it is again for the blink of an eye, that devilish glint in the corner of his eyes, like he's recovered from his shock and pulling his wits together again. “But I prefer to date first.” 

She crosses her arms. “Well, I don't,” she replies firmly. “Date, I mean.” 

His head drops to the side again. “You don't date? But didn't you come here to...”, again, the vague motioning with the hand, “to meet someone interesting?” 

“I came here to hook up,” she clarifies and feels anger bubble up in her stomach. Why the hell is he trying to kill the mood? 

“What's wrong with dating?” he inquires, and she doesn't believe her ears. Really? What's this, an interrogation?

“Dating comes always with baggage,” she hears herself answer, and that upsets her even more, because she really didn't mean to share any personal thought with him. Way too intimate. “I have enough of my own.” 

He takes half a step in her direction, suddenly standing in her personal space again. “Well, it doesn't have to,” he argues in a calm, almost soothing voice, as if he's trying to convince her of something that isn't any of his fucking business. “Why don't you – “ 

She holds up a hand to interrupt him. “Listen,” she interjects impatiently, “you seem nice enough. I don't want to be rude, but take it from me – I'm not dating material.” She's so busy talking and avoiding looking at him that she doesn't notice the intense way his eyes try to read what lies beyond her rash words that are tumbling out of her mouth faster and faster. “I'm not gonna waste my time pretending to you that I am, only to get my itch scratched in a week because you think you have to behave like with some... weird kind of gentleman code.” She takes a deep breath and looks at him again, willing to give it one more try. “So, this is your last chance – take me home, or kindly make room for someone who will,” she challenges, calmer again now, and adds, “But I would really prefer you over anybody else here.” 

He scrutinizes her for a few moments in silence, and a muscle in his jaw twitches. Just when she's about to get nervous again, he nods his head slowly, once. “If you put it that way...” she smirks already, thinking now she got him, “I'm afraid I have to decline, love,” he finishes in a unexpectedly gentle voice, and her jaw drops in surprise. “Scratching itches is not for me.” He leans a little forward and looks deep into her eyes, all flirty demeanor gone now. “And... I'm always a gentleman,” he adds, as if it's especially important to him to make that point. 

She shrugs, feigning indifference with just the right hint of mockery. “Your loss then,” she tosses at him. 

One last time, he tilts his head. “Perhaps it's yours, lass,” he replies quietly, with a hint of regret in his low voice. “Be careful.” And with one final glance at her lips, he opens the door, letting the chilly night air blow inside, and leaves.

For a few seconds she stares at the closed door in disbelief; it can't possibly be that she was just turned down by a guy she offered good fun with no strings attached, because he'd have preferred to date her? Who did he think he was? The anger that has been simmering in her belly for the last few minutes starts to boil. For a moment, she contemplates to go back inside and have another drink, pick out another guy, but she knows for tonight that ship has sailed. She won't find anyone else to her liking now – her mood is ruined. Ruined by some stupid, random, blue-eyed guitar picker.

By the time she gets home, she's worked herself into a fury. She's tired, frustrated and tense, the sweet taste of rum still lingering on her tongue, mixed with the taste of that bastard and the bitter flavor of rejection. Be careful, really? What an asshole. Oh, she will take care. She will take very good care of herself, and she doesn't need some stupid, self-righteous idiot for that who obviously cannot handle a woman making the first move. She doesn't need his dreamy eyes, sensuous lips or his skilled fingers; her own fingers will do just fine, just like they always do.

When she does take care of herself, her moves are angry and hasty, not nice and slow, and by no means does she have images of a tall, dark and blue-eyed man with elegant, but strong fingers in her head that sneak between her own, intertwining with them while she brings herself to completion with an angry huff. She falls asleep with a bit of her tension released, but she's more frustrated than before, and her last thought is, I only do the good stuff. Not good enough. Dismissed.

***  
Emma Swan is a vagabond.

Having grown up as an orphan in the foster system she never had a true home until it finally seemed to be her turn to have a bit of luck when she got adopted by the Blanchards at the mature age of sixteen. She wouldn't have been Emma Swan, of course, if her luck had lasted longer than two years – that was exactly the time granted her to live a normal family life. Before she even truly settled in, her adoptive parents died, and she was left alone again. Although luckily, not completely alone – there was her adoptive sister Mary Margaret, two years older than her, and even though they had been sisters only for two years, they felt a deep connection and stuck together. Mary Margaret was Emma's family.

While the older one always knew what she wanted to do in life – become a teacher – Emma always felt restless and went through several jobs, never actually feeling like she'd found something she really wanted to do. Just when her sister thought the wild child had found a job she liked and would settle down, Emma had to live through a messed-up relationship with a coworker who cheated on her and made her the joke of the office. That was when she, much to Mary Margaret's chagrin, decided to run and left Boston where they had been living. Putting as much distance as possible between her and the bad memories, she found a job on the other side of the country. Stayed for six months and ran again. And that became a pattern with her: she never stayed anywhere for longer than six months. She saw her sister every year for a few days, but then she disappeared into a new version of the same lonely life again, and nothing Mary Margaret could ever say or do would change her mind, so she always let her go, hoping one day she would come home for good. But that never happened.

Emma Swan's love life is non-existent; she doesn't do relationships, she doesn't date, and she doesn't even have affairs. One-night-stands are her thing, because hey, from time to time she needs her itch to be scratched. As for the rest? Who needs that fuckery anyway; it's only a waste of time bringing nothing but torment, and she doesn't need that. She knows that her sister wants her to come home with every fiber of her pure and hopeful heart, but she doesn't feel like she really has a home, even if she loves Mary Margaret dearly. So, she's always traveling with light baggage, literally: she doesn't own more than she can fit into her old and battered yellow bug. The flats she rents are always furnished – the uglier, the better, because she's not interested in creating a place worth staying. She can't even imagine that such a place exists at all.

Having finally discovered her special gift – she is good at finding people, and her instincts usually tell her if someone's lying – she works as an investigator for various companies and offices and eventually as a bailbondsperson. It gives her a certain satisfaction to see wrongdoers being punished. When it's time to leave her current occupation again, coincidence has it that she gets a good job offer in Boston – the company profile somehow touched a nerve in her: Lost And Found is a small company which is specialized in finding missing persons: families that have been separated, friends that have lost each other due to circumstances, life and bad decisions. Emma likes the thought of helping people find what she can never have – or so she thinks. She knows that Mary Margaret is secretly hoping that this time she will stay, so she puts big effort in pointing out that this is just a limited job contract to begin with – only three months. After that, she is going to move on, as always.

Mary Margaret accepts that silently and helps her sister to find a little apartment, secretly convinced that finally what she's hoping for will become true, because Mary Margaret Blanchard – Mary Margaret Nolan for a year now – never has lost hope and never will. And above all, she has never lost faith in her sister: one day, she will see the truth and accept that there are people who are not going to leave her. And she believes in fate. She believes – no, she knows – that it can't be mere coincidence that a job brought her little sister back to Boston.

It's the night before her first day at the new job when Emma Swan feels the need to release some of her tension, and so she walks to that bar in the neighborhood that's only a couple of blocks away to find someone that tickles her fancy to have a bit of good, dirty fun with. Well, that went fine. She has the dreadful feeling that nothing about her stay in Boston will be as she expects it to be. But she can't even begin to understand yet how true that is.

When Emma shows up at her new job the next morning, her head is slightly dull, on the verge of throbbing. Her sleep wasn't very refreshing, but she brews her coffee extra strong and picks from her vast collection of leather jackets the old, red one she feels most comfortable in. No costume or suit required, her new boss has told her, after all. Even though Regina Mills herself is a very elegant, distinguished woman, she doesn't believe in overrating exterior. Her motto for her employees is: don't dress for the job, do the job. She's sharp and has no chill for nonsense or wasting of time, therefore the little tour of introduction she gives Emma seems to end before it's begun, but Emma is used to getting the hang of new things all by herself, so she's fine with it. 

“And now,” Regina finally says and opens a glass door with dash, “your office.” She beckons Emma in, and she secretly takes a relieved breath – she likes to be by herself and hasn't been looking forward to working in the buzz of a bullpen. Then she notices there are two desks in the spacious room; one of them is scarcely equipped and obviously vacant, the other one shows every sign of being in use, although it's very tidy.

She turns to Regina. “And whose desk is this?” she asks casually.

The dark-haired woman frowns instead of a response. "Normally he should be..." Then suddenly the door swings open again, and a guy strides in with long, confident steps, and something about his walk seems vaguely familiar. Emma quickly scans the lean figure from feet to face, and when her eyes reach his face, her expression freezes and her body goes rigid, because this just turns out to be easily in her top five list of days she's better have stayed in bed. She knows this face. She knows these eyes. She wishes she was in Alaska. "Ah, here you are,” Regina's voice bursts into her bubble of shock. “Miss Swan, meet your new partner,” she continues to Emma's horror and waves her hand in the man's direction. “This is Killian Jones." 

Well, holy shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma Swan has just found out that her almost-one-night-stand will be her partner at her new job. Can it get any worse?

His eyebrows shoot up, just as she remembers, but he doesn't show any signs of shock or awkwardness, just surprise. Of course not. He was not the one hitting on her and being shot down. A feeling of mortification seeps through her. Regina looks at him and motions to Emma. "Emma Swan." And with that, she turns around to leave, obviously considering everything necessary to be said and done with that spartan introduction. 

Partner? Before he can react in any way, Emma averts her eyes from Killian Jones, takes two quick steps after Regina and calls, "Uh, Regina?" The boss freezes mid move and raises a questioning eyebrow. Emma shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, her back turned to her new... oh God. Let this be a nightmare. "Actually, I'm better when I work alone,” she says firmly. “I'm sure we can–"

"Miss Swan,” Regina interrupts in a calm, slightly indignant voice. “Are you a good investigator?"

Emma nods slowly. "That's why you hired me."

"Right. And I've been told your intuition is impeccable." Emma just looks at her new employer cautiously. Regina purses her lips into a smile that could cut steel. "It will tell you what's best if you want to succeed in my company." A hint of a very subtle threat sneaks into her voice. "Fine.” She nods with determination. “I can assure you, with Mr. Jones you're in the best hands." And with that, she turns around and leaves the office, shutting the door behind her with a determined click.

Emma keeps staring at the door for a few moments before she closes her eyes in defeat, somehow hoping when she opens them again she will wake from this nightmare. By no means is she ready to turn around and face him, her new partner, her almost-one-night-stand from the night before, but then she can't delay it any longer. She draws a deep breath and raises her chin in defiance before she turns around slowly.

He hasn't said a word yet. Leaning against his desk, he has his arms folded over his stomach and his legs – clad in tight black denims again – nonchalantly crossed at the ankles. It's not a henley today but an anthracite dress shirt with a black waistcoat he's wearing, and even though she still feels like she's been hit by a bus, Emma doesn't fail to notice that the two top buttons of his shirt are undone. She delays until the last moment to look at his face, but much to his surprise she doesn't find the gloating smirk she expected to see there; his eyes are resting on her in a calm and pensive way, only the tiniest hint of – rather benevolent – amusement ghosting over his expression.

“Okay,” she huffs and puts her hands to her hips. “Can we get it over with?” 

He doesn't reply immediately but continues to scrutinize her for a moment. “With what?” he finally asks and unfolds his arms. “So, I play guitar and sing at a bar sometimes,” he then continues to her surprise. “It's no big deal. Regina knows it.” He tilts his head. “As long as it doesn't affect my job, it's no one's business what I do in my free time.” 

You got to be kidding me. What game is he playing? Emma narrows her eyes suspiciously and tries to read his expression, but he remains calm and steady and if she doesn't completely misread him is neither mocking her nor being sleazy in any way. Okay, she didn't expect that. Her nod is slow and thoughtful, her voice coated in disbelief. “So, we're handling this like adults?” 

There's his head tilt again, a shrug obviously. “I don't see why not,” he replies and, raising an eyebrow, adds pointedly, “Swan.” He lets the 'n' linger a bit on his tongue, and Emma's thoughts meander embarrassingly fast into inappropriate territory again.

She raises her hands as in defense. “Hey, I'm not giving every random stranger my real name.” 

He pushes away from the edge of the desk and walks over to her slowly, the swagger in his step still recognizable. “Excuse me, Swan, you would have gone home with a random stranger and let him fuck you!” he argues, and she blushes, much to her dismay. She doesn't know what affects her more, him constantly calling her by her last name, the use of that word or her wandering mind trying on its own accord to ponder over the question what if.

“That's different,” she replies quickly. “My name is personal. Fucking is not.” 

He crosses his arms again and raises an eyebrow. “Oh my. Obviously, you have no idea how it's done properly then.” Even though he could have made it suggestive, he does not; he says it more in a matter-of-tact voice. That annoys her even more.

“Let me guess – but you do?” She pours some extra sharp sarcasm into her words, and when he doesn't take the bait, she snorts. “Cool it down, buddy,” she tells him, “you had your chance.” 

He's not even offended; he just tilts his head again and replies dryly, “And you had yours. Good thing we clarified this.” Without any further ado, he smiles openly and extends his hand; the move sends a faint trace of his scent her way which throws her off track for a moment. “On good cooperation then?” 

Again, she tries to read his expression, and when she comes to the conclusion that he seems honest enough, she slowly takes his hand and shakes it. “On good cooperation.”

“Then let's get to work.” He walks to the door and opens it for her. “Come on, I'm showing you everything you need to know for now, and then I'll introduce you to our current cases.” He goes immediately down to business, and much to her surprise Emma feels the tight knot in her belly slowly give way into relief and her awkwardness and dread start to dissolve. Maybe this day doesn't belong on her top-five list of bad days after all, much to her surprise.

***  
When Emma leaves the office after that first day, her head is still buzzing from all the information and new impressions she got, but she knows she just needs a good night's sleep, and her brain will have it all organized, and the next day she'll wake up with nothing but zest for action.

It doesn't take long before she realizes that the files that land on her and Killian Jones's desks contain the trickiest cases, the coldest cases, the almost hopeless ones. When she asks him about that, he just shrugs, scratches briefly behind his ear and replies that he seems to have the reputation of being very persistent. (Later, the boss confirms that and adds that even though he gets the most difficult cases, his rate of success is the highest one in the company. Emma tries to mask that she's impressed, but Regina notices and reminds her with a smirk that she's told her she's in the best hands.)

Emma isn't looking for friendship, she never is, and especially not with a guy she tried to hit on before (in vain) and fantasized about while pleasuring herself (she still blushes when she thinks about that). But, just like on that first day that started out so dreadfully, Killian Jones makes it easy for her – easy to work with him, easy to feel comfortable in his presence in spite of that episode at the bar. That episode, in fact, is never mentioned again or hinted at in any way, and soon enough Emma successfully tells herself that it never happened. 

Still, she's surprised about how well they really get along; actually, they make a good team. They don't need to talk a lot when they're working their tricky cases – it seems that they understand each other without many words, that they think alike on many things. Emma has always been guarded and doesn't make friends easily (because, where's the point if you don't intend to stick around for a long time anyway), but with Killian Jones, somehow, well... they develop some sort of friendship rather quickly, and even if she shakes her head at herself, she allows it to happen, because why the hell not. Maybe it's all so easy because they've made it clear from day one that hooking up is off the table, and thus any stupid and awkward dancing around each other is simply unnecessary; neither of them has to worry about sending out wrong signals, everything is uncomplicated.

Or so they think.

***

“That's it. I'm out for today.” Killian shuts his computer down and runs his hand over his mouth, his scruff making a scratching sound against his palm.

“M-hm,” Emma replies absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on her screen.

He sighs. “Swan.”

Without looking up, she waves her hand at him dismissively. “I think I might be on to something. I just want to–”

“Swan,” he repeats, and now she shoots him a slightly annoyed glare. He parries with a smile. “It won't get you anywhere if you stay here wearing yourself out until late night like yesterday,” he tells her in a calm voice. “Better catch a break now and look at it again tomorrow morning with fresh eyes.” She rolls her eyes, but doesn't reply, and he tilts his head. “You know I'm right.”

“And you know I hate when you say that,” she huffs.

“Of course I do,” he chuckles and grabs her leather jacket from the coat hanger behind the door, handing it to her when she's finished switching off her computer.

His quip makes her smile, and she shrugs. “I just hate it when there are so little clues.”

“But when you get frustrated and upset, you might even miss one, so better take a step back.” She nods and allows Killian to hold the door open for her. “You need a little distraction,” he suggests when she walks past him. “Why don't you come over to the bar later? I'm playing tonight.” 

What was that? Emma stops dead in her track so suddenly that he almost bumps into her. She whirls around on her heel. “Whoa, I told you I don't date.” 

He holds up his hands. “Relax, Swan. I'm not asking you out.” He waves his hand as nonchalantly as vaguely while he continues, “A few of the colleagues are gonna be there too.” 

“Oh. Good.” She nods and adds, “I mean, I don't think so. I'm more of a loner.” 

Killian raises his eyebrows. “You're a recluse,” he downright tells her and walks over to his car before she can answer, displaying his usual swagger. She can't help but grin and wave when he drives off the parking lot, even though she's a little miffed that he didn't even try to convince her.

Then she shakes her head at herself and murmurs, “Really?”, because why would she want him to convince her? She likes being alone, and he knows her well enough by now, so of course he wouldn't pressure her to participate in any social activities. And that's fine.

When she gets home and settles for her usual evening routine – consisting of some microwave food, a beer and tv – somehow it doesn't do anything to bring her down from the stress of the day or relax her. In some strange way, Emma feels awkwardly alone, lonely almost, and that's really ridiculous, because she is not lonely. She just enjoys being by herself, she always has (she always has told herself that). A recluse, ridiculous. Just because she isn't a social butterfly, just because she avoids letting anyone come close, knowing that people always let you down sooner or later, that doesn't mean she's incapable of socializing. Alright, she's gonna show him.

She throws on her leather jacket and her favorite pair of boots and walks into the bar just a few blocks away, just for one drink and one song. Luckily, all of the other colleagues have gone home already, because she's really not interested in meeting anyone there. Not that she doesn't get along with them; she's just not interested.

She sits down at the counter and orders a beer, just in time to hear Killian from his little pedestal where he's announcing his last song of the evening, Dead Or Alive. His eyes catch hers and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he smiles and starts to pick his strings. She presses her lips together in a small smile and raises her bottle a little to him before he lowers his head to look down at his guitar. A tuft of his dark hair falls over his forehead like on that evening a little more than two weeks ago when she saw him for the first time. When he sings, he seems completely lost in his song, and she feels the melancholic, disillusioned words all the way down to her toes. 

Sometimes I sleep  
Sometimes it's not for days  
The people I meet  
Always go their separate ways

Emma averts her eyes and takes a deep swig from her beer, not really happy about his song choice which seems to hit very close to home for her. Too bad that his voice obviously does melancholic as well as sexy, which she didn't expect. The guitar sounds hard and metallic, perfect for the song.

Sometimes you tell the day  
By the bottle that you drink  
And times when you're alone  
All you do is think

She frowns and shakes her head. Pathetic. Alone and happy is more like it. She's glad though when the song ends and Killian leaves the improvised stage and saunters over towards the bar. He puts away his guitar before he joins her and slips on the seat next to her.

“You changed your mind,” he states unnecessarily.

She shrugs. “I figured you were right. A little distraction might be useful.”

He leans a little forward, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “Say that again, would you?” Emma can't help but chuckle, to which he smiles before he says, “You may buy me a rum, Swan.” 

She raises her eyebrows in an amused expression. “Oh? I thought you're normally the one buying the drinks?” 

He tilts his head. “If we're friends it's alright.” 

Somehow, the word has a nice ring to it, and Emma repeats it. “Friends? As in not enemies?” 

“As in not dating,” he clarifies. 

It hits her unexpectedly, that totally absurd pang of disappointment at his words, and it's absolutely ridiculous, because of course they are not dating, because Emma Swan doesn't date, and Killian Jones respects that, so what the fuck is wrong? Quickly, she masks her momentary confusion with a little snorted laugh. “Oh. Yeah, sure.” Waving at the bartender a little hectically, she orders two of the stuff he's usually having, pointing at Killian who, as she notices, seems to scrutinize her a little curiously.

When they have their drinks, the first sips are taken in amicable silence before Killian asks, “So, what do you think about the job so far? Is it what you expected it to be?”

She shrugs. “Lost And Found is a pretty accurate name for the company,” she replies. “I like that everyone's pretty effective. Regina seems to have good instincts for hiring the right people.”

He smirks. “Why, thank you,” he drawls, and again, she can't help but smile, her earlier confusion slowly dissolving. They are on familiar – bantering – grounds. It's comfortable, as always. “I'm curious,” he then continues, “why have you decided to come and work for Regina? You strike me more as someone to find rogues so that justice can be done.”

She looks at him with wide eyes; she has never mentioned to him her previous job as a bailbondsperson, but he's just described her motivation to a t. Sometimes she finds it unnerving how well he seems to read her. “Maybe I like the concept of helping people finding each other,” she replies, tightening the grip around her glass a little.

He tilts his head. "So you have a soft side after all?"

Emma looks into the swirling brown liquid before taking another sip. "Maybe I just know how it feels to be... lost." It's not easy to say that word and connecting it directly to herself, and the looks Killian gives her shows that he has an inkling about that. She doesn't even know why she's said it, why she's shown a tidbit of herself, of a part that's better kept locked away.

"And looking to be found?" he inquires softly, but her walls go up again immediately, tightly locked in place.

"And you?” she asks instead of an answer. “What are you looking for, Jones?"

His thoughtful eyes rest on hers for a moment, but he doesn't press any further; obviously he's perceptive enough to realize her shifting the focus to him means she doesn't want to put more of herself out for him to see. And he's sensitive enough to accept it. I'm always a gentleman, shoots through Emma's mind.

"Me?" he finally asks and tilts his head. "Nothing special. Just what everyone's looking for."

She doesn't want to, but she takes the bait, out of sheer curiosity – about what he's looking for and about what he thinks everyone – including her – is looking for. "And what's that?" she sighs.

He takes a sip of his rum and looks away for a moment, showing a tidbit of himself now. "Home," he replies, and for a moment his voice seems to trail off in the distance of some other time or place.

"Oh." Emma chews on her bottom lip, trying to find a way out of this conversation. This is getting way too deep, way too personal. She doesn't have any intention to reveal her scars and fears to him, and she doesn't have any intention to learn about his. "Why limit yourself?" she then asks lightly and eyes him from the side. He's still not looking at her. "There are so many beautiful places in this world." Right, she thinks, as if I'd know. I've seen only urban misery and crappy flats so far. For a second, she's so tired of all that shit, of constantly running and never staying, of always departing and never arriving. It frightens her, because she never felt like that – so far, she always managed to tell herself that she's happy with the life she's leading.

Of course he chooses this moment to look back into her eyes and firmly replies, "I'm not talking about a place, Swan."

Okay, that's it, she thinks. If I wanted to have that type of conversation, I'd have dinner with Mary Margaret. This is not distraction, this is distress. "Well," she says brightly (but it's oh so fake) and touches her glass to his, "to everyone getting what they want." Before he can reply anything, she downs the rest of her rum under his thoughtful scrutiny and places the empty tumbler on the counter carefully, because she is not upset and doesn't want him to assume she is. "Time for me to call it a night," she then announces, "you know, what you said – fresh mind tomorrow 'n'all."

She slides down from her seat and nods. "See you in the office, Jones. Night."

She can almost feel his gaze follow her as she walks out.

Over the time that follows they manage to still increase the success rate, proof that Emma Swan and Killian Jones form one of the best investigator teams the company has ever seen; Regina is very pleased with them, and the pile of case files on their desks never seems to dwindle. When they get to a case that seems a bit harder to resolve, they work on another case parallel in order to stay motivated by little lifts in morale. Sometimes though, frustration threatens to take over; especially Emma is impatient and gets easily upset whenever they get stuck in a case, whenever there's a real chance of having to shelve a case as unresolved.

One day, about four weeks after her first day at Lost And Found, Emma slams the receiver down after a very unsatisfying phone call. Killian looks up from his desk and lifts an eyebrow in silent question.

“Damn, that was just another dead end,” Emma huffs and shuts the computer down.

“Perhaps we should just give up,” he suggests carefully.

Emma's head snaps up. “What?!” she growls and points out, “I never give up! Our client deserves answers.” She jumps up from her chair. “She deserves to look her father in the eye and–”

“And what?” Killian cuts her off, his voice having lost its usual calmness. “Hear that she was unwanted and that's why he left?” He tilts his head just that little bit more than usual. “Nobody wants to hear that.” She frowns at him half-curiously; something in his voice piques her attention, there's just a tiny vibe of too-close-to-home. A little more calmly, he continues, “This man definitely doesn't want to be found. Maybe sometimes it's better not knowing.”

She shakes her head, and it's funny, but seeing him upset calmed her down somehow, even if it's just the tiniest bit. She draws a deep breath, carefully contemplating her next words, always anxious to give away too much. “Trust me,” she then says with a hoarse voice, “nothing's worse than not knowing.”

There's a long pause; Killian scrutinizes her in silence like he's done a few times since she met him, and again she has the frightening feeling that he looks right into her soul. His next words prove that he did exactly that. “Did you ever find out?”

Emma presses lips together and grabs the red leather jacket hanging on its usual hook behind the door. She slips it on and her walls go up again, protecting her. That's what walls are for after all, right? “No,” she replies curtly and leaves the office without another word and without looking back.

***  
He didn't even plan to go to the bar that evening, but he knows that closing himself off when he's in a gloomy mood doesn't do him any good. Part of that mood is due to painful, long forgotten memories coming to the surface – Killian Jones has some baggage of his own to carry – but that is only half the truth. He has never been the one to lie to himself, and so he can freely admit that Emma Swan is the main reason for his gloom. Emma Swan, his new partner, the woman who has piqued his interest from the moment he met her, the moment she hit on him so shamelessly. Even though she played a game of seduction, he saw the forlornness behind her bravado, the lost girl behind the femme fatale act. It would be a lie to say he wasn't tempted to take her home with him, but he was sure that would have ended in him being hurt. Still, walking out of the bar that night and not looking back wasn't easy to do.

When he met her again, she behaved differently from the beginning – still guarded, yes; but she wasn't playing a role any longer. She is mostly being herself – to a certain extent only, of course. Knowing that there isn't any need to play games between the two of them, no danger of him speculating on a relationship of some sort, she behaves openly with him, naturally. They are partners, they make a great team, actually, and they have even become friends, sort of. In short words, everything is going smoothly between them, is uncomplicated. Except for one thing: Killian Jones is slowly, but undeniably falling for Emma Swan.

He's good at keeping that to himself, though. Even if she's opened up a little to him, he knows she's nowhere near being ready for anything that goes beyond a one-night-stand. And he knows if she knew that he is developing feelings for her that go beyond the sort-of friendship they're having, she'd run as fast and far as she can. Even if something in her eyes whispers to him at times, carefully, barely perceptible, that maybe, just maybe, she feels the same ache that pulls her to him. 

That's why he's cursing himself tonight: her outburst showed him a glimpse of what drives her, and suddenly he was sure that she has been left, too... and so he blurted out his question that made her close down immediately. Good job, mate. If she isn't ready to reveal that bit of herself, why did he have to poke and frighten her? He has understood by now that she hates nothing more than being vulnerable; and realizing someone seems to read you like an open book... well, if that doesn't make you vulnerable, nothing does.

Normally, whenever he's upset, performing music does wonders for him, but tonight he can't seem to find his inspiration, his voice. Frustrated, he decides to end it for today and slips from his stool after finishing the last tunes. That's when he sees her.

She's sitting at the bar, wearing the same clothes as earlier today in the office. She isn't even looking it his direction, but from the line of her shoulders he can tell she's tense. But she's there, waiting. He almost trips over his own feet when he hops from the small pedestal and walks over to the bar deliberately slowly. Then he stows away his guitar behind the counter as usual and wordlessly takes the stool beside her. She has two tumblers of supposedly rum in front of her and, still not looking at him, pushes one towards him, then she starts to speak.

“I was left at the steps of a hospital, only a few hours old,” she begins. “There was nothing personal on me, no letter, no blanket, no clue whatsoever... there was no chance of ever finding out.” She's holding her glass firmly as if she's trying to steady herself and looks intently into the warm brown liquid while she continues, “I will never know if my mother hesitated giving me up. If she was forced to. If she cried.” At that, her voice trembles, only the tiniest bit, but it's over in the blink of an eye. When she finally turns her head to look at him, she's her usual controlled self again. “I've made my peace with it, but some part of me will always wonder.”

Killian doesn't reply immediately, and she looks into her glass again. Still silent, he scrutinizes her closely, and eventually she lifts her gaze back to him, and he sees that there's melancholy in her eyes, the kind of dull, faint pain sometimes inflicted by an old scar, but that she's okay. He's beyond amazed that she told him this, showed him a piece of her true self for the first time. After another moment of silence – not an awkward one – he finally speaks, “My father left us without a word when I was barely six and my brother ten. He broke my mother's heart.” 

Emma is attentively listening now; surprisingly enough, revealing that bit of her story to him has left her a little less tense, it's like sharing this has lifted a bit of weight off her shoulders, and it seems now Killian wants to reciprocate by showing her a bit of his own troubled past she suspected he's had. His gaze is drifting into the distance. “We lost her about ten years later,” he continues his tale, and her heart clenches. “Liam – my brother – had just joined the Navy. He moved heaven and hell to make sure we could stay together. And he did.” He pauses for a moment, obviously far away in his thoughts. “When I was of age, I tried to find our father. Took me almost a year, but then I tracked him down. And I asked him: why? Why did you abandon us? And he looked me in the eye and said: I never wanted to be a father.” He swallows hard, his jaw like a rock, and his eyes lock with hers. “He said: It was a mistake.” Her heart grows heavy. “But you were right.” he finishes, “it was better to know. I had my closure.”

“You never saw him again?” Emma asks softly.

He takes the glass in his hand, carefully letting the liquor inside swirl around. “I did what he had done,” he reveals slowly and tilts his head, “I turned around and walked away and never looked back.”

She wants to say she's sorry, because she is – but she knows that isn't what he's looking for. So she just asks, “Is that why you left England?”

He shakes his head once and takes a sip of his rum before he replies, “No. I left after Liam died.” 

That does throw Emma off track, and even if she's trying to be compassionate but still remain calm, she can't hide her shock at that. “It's okay, Swan,” he quickly assures, it's been over ten years now.” As if that makes it any better. She doesn't know what to say; she knows she probably doesn't give her sister enough credit, but she also knows if it wasn't for Mary Margaret, she'd be completely homeless. Home – I'm not talking about a place, Swan, his voice echoes in her mind. Her face must be showing her turmoil, because suddenly Killian looks guilty. “Hey, I can handle it. It's just... it didn't feel like home anymore.”

She nods. "I know what you mean..."

He turns his head to look at her and smiles, slightly raising the glass to her. "Looks like we're the right people in the right job."

"For the time being," she replies more curtly than she intended, feeling the tension creeping back into her shoulders again. When he raises an eyebrow in question, she shrugs. "My assignment is only temporary,” she explains, “one month down, two to go."

"Oh, I'm sure Regina will offer you a permanent job,” he tells her. “You're the best investigator the company ever had.” He tilts his head. “Beside meself, of course."

She just smiles feebly in response to his quip. "I never stay longer than a few months."

He frowns. "Why?" he asks bluntly.

"Because normally by then it's time to go," she gives a non-answer and takes a sip from her drink, welcoming the excuse to look away from him.

"To run away, you mean," he outright tells her, and she glares at him but doesn't reply. "What about your sister?" he inquires.

“She understands," she replies curtly.

He's not satisfied. “Aye, but... is she not enough home for you?”

“We're very close, even if I'm not around.” She hates how defensive her voice sounds, but can't help it. She knows how much Mary Margaret longs for her staying in town.

“My apologies,” Killian says quickly and raises his hands in rueful defense. “It's not my place to–“

“Don't worry,” she cuts him off, all harshness gone from her voice. “I prefer people to be honest about what they think. In fact, I like it brutally honest.” She presses her lips into a tired smile and lifts her glass a little to him.

He just nods and touches his glass to hers, thinking, we'll see if you really do.

***  
Later, when he's lying in his bed, unable to sleep, her voice still rings in his ears. One month down, two to go. So, she has her retreat already planned, isn't even taking into consideration to stay any longer, to give it a try. Because normally, by then it's time to go.

Killian has never imagined it would be easy to win the heart of Emma Swan – but a deadline of only two months will make it nearly impossible. It is way too early to approach her now, with the balance between them still so fragile, her barely accepting their friendship. Sure, it was a huge step for her today, letting him catch a glimpse of her troubled past, an inkling of what rendered her so lost, so guarded, her walls so high. However, she's still far from really letting anyone near, even as a friend, and if he pushes her, she will close down again completely, her shell snapping shut. But if his instincts about her are right, and there is indeed some sort of connection between them, if she feels it, too, and he remains passive – she will come to think of him as yet one more person who lets her down, who doesn't deem her worth the effort. So, it seems like whatever he does – or does not do – he will come to naught either way. On the other hand, giving up before even trying has never been his way of handling things. If only time wasn't against him...

Killian runs his hands through his head and sighs. One month down, two to go. Tick-tock.

***  
“Please, no!” Emma pushes away her plate and shakes her head, blowing out her cheeks. “If you make me eat one more tidbit, it's gonna get messy.”

Her sister laughs. “All right, all right. I know I'm exaggerating. But it's just so good to have you.”

Emma averts her eyes a little sheepishly for a moment, and her brother-in-law pipes up, before his wife and her sister can get into their usual routine where Mary Margaret starts to drop not-so-subtle hints how it's about time for Emma to settle down, and wouldn't she want to come home, and Emma would reply that one day she might, but not just yet, and both sisters would make those melancholic faces full of longing. “So, how are you getting along with the Mills woman?” David asks. “I heard she's not easy to get along with.”

“How would you know?” Emma asks back with a frown.

“I met her a few times,” Mary Margaret explains, “her company helped a few of my pupils' families reunite. She seems to be a fierce lady.” 

Emma shrugs. “I don't have really much to do with her. I suppose she stays out of my hair as long as she's satisfied with my results.” She grins. “And I'm good.”

“Hear, hear!” Mary Margaret singsongs. “Not that I've ever doubted it.” She smiles. “You look particularly satisfied today.”

Emma nods and takes a sip of her wine. “Solved a tricky case yesterday. It's been weeks, but...” She licks her lips and draws a deep breath. “The client got closure.”

Her sister smiles softly. “That's great.”

“Seems to be the perfect job for you,” David throws in.

“That's what Killian says, too,” Emma replies casually and fails to notice the glance Mary Margaret and her husband exchange.

“Killian?” her sister echoes.

“Yeah, he's my colleague,” Emma explains and adds, “actually, we're working cases together, and the other day he mentioned we're the right people in the right jobs. Because we understand from our own experience what the clients are going through. You know, orphans and all.” When Mary Margaret frowns curiously, Emma shrugs again and explains, “We swapped tragic backstories.”

“Ah, I see.” Mary Margaret gets up from her seat, “well, I'm glad you like the job.” She smiles, loads herself with empty plates and breezes out after announcing she's going to get dessert.

Later, when Emma has gone home to spend the rest of her Friday evening with a bowl of popcorn and a movie, David starts to question his wife, all cop that he is. “So, what was that about?” He wants to know.

“What do you mean?” Mary Margaret asks back innocently. 

“Oh, come on,” he scolds, “your sister mentions a guy's name, and you don't poke about it even a little bit? Where was your Spanish Inquisition?”

“Please!” Mary Margaret giggles. “I'm not that bad.” She shoots him a threatening glance to silence his protest in the making. “Besides, I've changed my tactics,” she explains. “I have learned that with Emma, poking doesn't get me anywhere when it's something serious. So nonchalance it is.”

“Did you just say something serious?” her husbands echoes. “Aren't you a little exaggerating?”

She shakes her head with a knowing smile. “Not at all. Didn't you hear what she said? They exchanged tragic backstories.” She underlines the meaningfulness of her words – Emma's words – with air quotes. “And Emma never shares her past with anyone, let alone a man.”

David rolls his eyes and huffs at his wife. “You're just way too–“

“All I'm saying is,” Mary Margaret interrupts, “that a happy ending is in the cards for her.”

David sighs with a smile. Her fierce love for and belief in her family has always been one of the traits he finds the most endearing in his wife. “Just don't get your hopes up too high,” he reminds her, not wanting to see her getting disappointed.

“Mark my words,” Mary Margaret waves him off, “all happy endings start with hope.”

***  
Emma has settled in quite well by now, and she's surprised that the feeling of contentment she usually gets if the new job turns out to be satisfying is still there. Normally, after six, eight weeks she starts to undeniably feel the non-fulfilment, the void, the restlessness that pulls her away in the end. The urge to leave and run should come to life and gently tickle her by now, but weird enough, it isn't happening just yet. She isn't worried about that, though, because it doesn't mean anything; she knows she'll feel the pull soon enough, and her assignment is limited anyway, so there's that. Until then, if she can enjoy her stay as long as it lasts – all the better.

It's not only the routine of the job that has her feeling comfortable in her current situation, it's also, of course, that she gets to see her sister often. She admits to herself that she never realized before that she actually misses Mary Margaret when she's separated from her; until now, she always thought she's fine with seeing her only once or twice a year or so, but having her around so close now is really... well, it gives her a strangely cozy feeling. This will probably be something, she concedes, to make it a little less easy to pack up and go once her assignment will be over.

And then there's this sort of friendship with Killian Jones, of course, the unexpected thing she never reckoned would become real – but there it is. It's not like they're hanging out all the time, but they are both very dedicated to their work and tend to work overtime, which means they are spending the good part of their waking hours together. Working together so close – and also their special kind of job – leads to them talking about personal experiences, something Emma isn't used to. But with Killian it seems easy and natural, especially after the first exchange of their very own stories of loss and being lost.

He talks a lot about his anger and how it threatened to eat him up from inside. How he felt like a failure after his father had told him it had been a mistake, because what else could it mean than that he was the mistake? So, the angry young man decided if his own father saw his mere existence as a mistake, he could damn well live up to it. He started to drink and hang out with the wrong people and almost, almost got lost. Killian outright admits that his brother Liam kind of saved his life, doing everything he could to keep him on the right path, not to let their father's words destroy everything they had struggled for. He doesn't shy away from talking about the day his brother passed away after a short, but lethal attack of a raging fever he caught while he was abroad. Emma is shocked when he reveals that he left England one month after he'd buried Liam and never has set foot on the Island since then – shocked because she knows exactly how he felt.

And then she tells him how she almost packed up and left, determined to burn all boats and never look back when her adoptive parents died in a stupid, unnecessary car crash. But then, when Mary Margaret came to her, her eyes swollen and red but her mouth curved in a hopeful smile, and hugged her, telling her how happy she was they had each other and that they'd never be alone, she quietly canceled that plan. Her sister never got to know how close she'd been to vanish from her life completely and forever; actually, she hasn't told that anyone yet. Revealing it to Killian is the first time she talks about it, and she's a little surprised at herself.

Emma tells him about her earlier days in the foster system, about the three times she was taken in by other families (and then sent back for various reasons) before finally finding a home with the Blanchards. And she talks about Mary Margaret, a lot about her, and while she does, the feeling that she will miss her once she leaves again grows stronger; if Killian notices, he doesn't mention it. In fact, he never mentions the deadline of her assignment or what he thinks about her plan to leave everything – and everyone – behind after it ends. Somehow, that nags a little at her, and she asks herself if he even cares – and then wonders why she cares about his opinion.

What she never talks about, though, are her miserable, failed attempts at relationships. Some things are better kept locked up, and somehow she's ashamed to admit that no one ever deemed her good enough to want to be with her, to really be with her. He never mentions anything regarding his love life either, and she supposes there have been bad experiences, too – no need to rehash them, really. Since they have established not having any intentions to get into each other's pants, the subject of relationships is off the cards anyway, and that's a relief actually.

Oh, she doesn't deny she's attracted to him, because honestly – who wouldn't be? It would also be a lie if she claimed that she never asked herself how it would – how it could – be, to go on a date with him, take it slow and then take him to bed. But of course, any of those thoughts have been dismissed immediately the moment they arose, because that would lead to some kind of relationship, which would be pointless as she's going to leave soon. And then the unpleasant drama it usually turned to... that would be bound to ruin their friendship for the remaining time. No, nothing can possibly be worth that, even if he turned out to be some kind of sex god or something – which isn't something Emma would deem totally far-fetched, not that she can judge or anything. Not that she's thinking about this at all. Anyway, why risk confusion at best and hurt and torment at worst, if she really just needs an itch to be scratched from time to time. 

And every time her thoughts reach that point, Emma conveniently ignores that, somehow, after that first night at the bar, her itch has never been scratched, at least not by someone else than herself. She stubbornly blames it on her lack of energy, caused by her satisfying, yet mentally exhausting job. It's not like she's making up excuses every time the occasion arises to make a catch for a one-night-stand and she doesn't jump on it.

It's not like she can't seem to find anyone living up to her standards lately. 

It's not like her standards seem weirdly raised these days. 

And no, it's surely not like she compares every guy she lays eyes on to Killian Jones – with the inevitable result that they all fail miserably. No, lack of energy it is. Self do, self have.

So that's how her life mostly goes, and yes, after two months she still likes it, even if a few things – quite a few, actually – have turned out differently than she expected. Of course, that sort of friendship with Killian was the weirdest of them all – but whatever. They have even made it a habit now: when he performs at the bar, most times she's there, too. Sometimes she only comes in for the last two songs, but she hardly ever misses a performance. They have a drink or two afterward and talk, and those are the only occasions they spend time together outside of the office, because hey – no dating. Emma enjoys those times, but she always pretends that she just goes there because she's bored.

One evening, they are already on their second drink, and somehow she's reluctant to go home, she goes to use the restroom, and when she comes back she finds a brunette talking to Killian, practically hitting on him. Hard. It's not like it's the first time she witnesses something like that, because duh, it's Killian. Normally, she just watches with some sort of quiet amusement how he fends them off, which he always does, but today... she feels irrational anger well up in her chest, also hard. Smoothly, she slips onto her stool again and when the girl looks at her from startled eyes, she smiles brightly, “Hi, how are you?”

The girl backs off immediately, raising her hands in an apologetic gesture, murmuring along her retreat, it sounds like, "I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

She doesn't notice the pensive look Killian gives her, because she's too busy following the girl's almost-escape with a self-content glint in her eyes. Then she turns to him with her best innocent face. "Sorry if I interrupted something," she says, trying really hard to keep the inexplicable glee from her voice.

"You weren't interrupting anything," he replies lightly, obviously not minding at all. 

"She looked interested,” she insists. “Keen even."

He tilts his head in a shrug. "Many a woman is," comes the smooth answer, and she rolls her eyes at his confidence, but then – where's the lie? 

“Modesty is not your strong side,” she replies dryly nevertheless.

His eyes sparkle with tease. “I thought you liked it brutally honest.”

She snorts a little laugh. “Oh, I do.” For a few moments, they just sit there in amicable silence, before she blurts out, "Can I ask you something?"

He throws her a curious glance. "Of course, Swan. Anything you want."

She turns to him, scrutinizing him thoughtfully. "You don't strike me as the type opposed to fun..."

He smiles. "I'm surely not."

"Yet, you let go of an occasion like this," she waves her hands vaguely in the direction where his admirer left. "Occasions," she furthers, because yes, she's witnessed this pattern more than once; hell, she's even experienced it first hand. "Basically, you say no to fun with no strings attached," she elaborates. "Why? Are you seriously telling me you never had a one-night stand?" The moment her words are out, Emma wishes she could take them back. She doesn't even understand why she brought up such a topic. 

If he is surprised by her bold inquiry, he keeps it well hidden. “My fair share of them,” he admits calmly and shrugs, “it's just not enough anymore.” His thoughtful gaze rests on her face, and she shifts a little on her seat.

“I see,” she comments lamely and shrugs, “Well, to each their own, I guess.”

Killian tilts his head. “Now can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Fair's fair.” She licks her lips a little nervously, but then raises her chin. “Shoot.”

And he does. “Why are you so opposed to dating? Relationships?” He leans a little forward, making sure to capture every word she's about to say.

She shrugs again. “Oh, all that drama and endless torment that comes with it,” she replies in a dismissive voice, “such an unnecessary waste of time and energy.” His eyes are narrowing slightly while he never takes them off her and she goes on weirdly rambling, “I mean, it might be nice for a while, but it will inevitably lead to the point where one screws over the other, and where's the point in all that when you can easily and effortlessly get to the good stuff?” She looks at him almost defiantly, but he doesn't answer.

There's a pause in which she gets a little uncomfortable under his silent scrutiny, before he finally speaks. “What did he do to you, Swan?”

That catches her off guard, and her jaw almost drops. “What? Who?”

“The bloody bastard who makes you talk like you actually believe this horseshit,” he growls.

She snorts again, but there's not much humor to it, more of a sadness that doesn't go unnoticed by him. “Don't try to analyze me, Jones,” she waves him off, “I'm really not that deep.”

He ignores her flippant remark and raises his eyebrows. “It doesn't have to be like that, you know.”

“And don't try to fix me,” she scolds in a mild voice and then, deciding that it's about time to leave these treacherous waters, tries to lighten the mood. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you want into my pants, after all,” she jokes feebly.

Killian tilts his head to the side. “And if I didn't know any better,” he replies without hesitation, “I'd think you want... more than that.” 

She knows it's a challenge – to what, alas, she doesn't know, doesn't dare to think about. She draws a deep, calming breath and retorts, “Well, good thing we both know better, right?”

He looks into his glass with a deep hum and lets the liquid swirl for a few seconds before he looks up at her again and tilts his head, scrutinizing her closely, before he asks in a calm voice, "Do we?”

Emma swallows and can't take her eyes away, but she really should, because she has the feeling that his stare into her eyes reaches right down to the bottom of her soul, and of all the times he's looked at her she's never felt exposed like this. She's mesmerized and terrified at the same time, because this is more than just Killian Jones reading her like an open book. No, it's like he's urging her to do it herself, to reach down to the bottom of her own soul, searching it, digging up things she thought buried for good a long time ago. Things like pain, like longing and believing, things like hope. Dangerous things, threatening to throw her life upside down. Things she just can't handle.

His eyebrows twitch in a questioning, an almost encouraging way, and she finally manages to blink twice and break the spell before she can say anything stupid. "Of course we do," she finally replies, her voice rough, almost refusing to form the words, "we're friends, right? Friends as in not dating." He averts his eyes and drops hie head slightly, exhaling slowly, and suddenly she feels an irrational spark of anger. "And," she goes on in a clipped voice, "unless you're into that whole friends with benefits concept, we're friends as in not fucking."

When his eyes shoot up at her again almost in a glare, her heart beats faster, because that's something she hasn't even thought about yet, and she has no idea why she mentions it now. She licks her lips almost nervously. "Or... or are you into–"

"Surely not," he cuts her off curtly, and like that first night, she feels again the irrational pang of rejection, and it stings. "That's a concept for cowards," he declares in a gravelly voice. When she frowns questioningly he continues, his annoyance clearly detectable now, "You have needs, go fuck a stranger. Doing it with a friend means you want a relationship, but minus the commitment." His accent comes out a little stronger now, and he leans a little forward to add, “Cowardice.”

Emma is a little taken aback by the unusual harshness of his words and the edge to his voice. When her eyes sweep over his face, she notices a twitching muscle in his jaw, and she wonders why he's so upset. Suddenly, there's a tension in the air between them she never felt before; she has no idea what's happening, but she definitely doesn't like it. Aiming to end the subject – and honestly, she's relieved to – she just shrugs, "Not my thing either," and motions her head vaguely in the direction of the small improvised stage of the bar. "Doing another one?" she asks casually, as if their previous conversation hasn't happened. 

It takes him another moment before he pries his eyes away from her face, then he shakes his head in an almost weary gesture. "I'm done," he replies and gulps down the rest of his drink.

Emma swallows, sensing a vibe that sends chills down her spine. "What, you moody?" she tries to tease, but it sounds horribly forced.

"Tired," comes Killian's answer, and when she makes a move to get off her seat, too, he stops her with a gesture of his hand. "Don't hurry on my account, Swan," he tells her and, at her questioning frown, adds, "Perhaps you can find yourself some... fun?" He raises his eyebrows pointedly and gives her a deliberately filthy look.

Her eyes widen at his insinuation and then narrow again with ire. And if she wanted to pick up some random guy for a one-night-stand, why is he so goddamn salty about it all of a sudden? It's not like they... Before finishing her thought, she jumps off her stool. “Why don't you take your self-righteousness and shove it right up your ass?” she hisses furiously and rushes past him without another word.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time he gets home, Killian feels deflated, weak and tired, so tired. And angry. Not at Emma, but at himself. God, he's such a bloody imbecile, what on earth was he thinking, losing his countenance like that? But her earlier approach had him really think that this was some sort of breakthrough, that she was really starting to wake up and realize fun with no strings attached stops being fun after a while; in fact, it gets pretty lonely and miserable. Her look when he told her that the good, stringless fun just wasn't enough anymore... he could have sworn he saw realization in her eyes in that moment, realization and a longing. A longing for more. He could have sworn that was the exact moment when a tiny crack appeared in her shell.

But then her stupid excuses all over again – sooner or later it will all go down in flames anyway, so why even bother trying? All relationships are doomed to end badly anyway? Which is why they must be avoided like the plague? He could clearly tell the moment her walls went up again, when the fleeting moment of openness passed by and the wish for staying in her safe bubble won over her longing for being able to let herself fall.

Emma Swan is terrified of letting people in because she's terrified of losing them, and he damn well knows it, and then he has to be harsh on her like that? And her remark about friends with benefits – instead of taking it as a step forward, this was the first active hint since that first evening that she was interested in him more than just as a friend. And he has to go and scold her for it, practically calling her a coward for contemplating it. Smooth move, Jones. Frustrated, he rubs his hand over his eyes. So far, he has achieved nothing to reach his aim to make her want to stay. And only four weeks left of her assignment... then she'll be gone. Tick tock.

Meanwhile, Emma is tossing and turning in her bed, a wild and frightening concoction of feelings shaking her to the core: confusion, anger, sadness, longing, frustration and more confusion. Everything was confusing this evening, The sudden spark of anger rolling through her veins when she saw that girl hitting on Killian, feeling almost like... no, impossible. Ridiculous. Jealousy? How? Asking him why he was opposed to one-night-stands, well, that was something that could pass for genuine interest in a friend, although those were also dangerous grounds. Slippery grounds. Because that led inevitably to thinking of the night they met and the mutual attraction they felt. Yes, they have decided to put that aside, but those instincts aren't easy to control. Emma knows she has been daydreaming about him from time to time, asking herself what if...? What she doesn't know is if it's on his mind, too; if he asks himself what could have happened if he took her home that night, if he tried a little harder to convince her to go on a date with him.

That conversation tonight, though, seemed to indicate he did. When he tried to tell her that a relationship doesn't necessarily have to end in a disaster, when he challenged her about assuming she might want more than just have him getting in her pants... yes, she got angry at his allusion, but it gave her also a vibe that he was interested in being more than just friends, that this was what he was actually challenging her to. Frightening stuff, because – no. But then... maybe? More confusion. Longing? Maybe even... hope? But what for? Pointless, pointless – she is going to leave in about four weeks. She doesn't even know what got into her that made her throw out that whole friends-with-benefits issue; she only knows that it seems to have upset him a great deal, making her wish she could take it back. And then the bastard goes and tells her to find herself some fun? Like, he's encouraging her to go and pick some random dude to... what the fuck is wrong with guys? Obviously, that means he pulls back, doesn't it? That she isn't worth pursuing. Well, why is she even surprised? She isn't, actually. She just thought – hoped? – that Killian Jones was different. That he was a little more persistent. That she... she... that she mattered. 

Emma pulls the sheet over her face and groans, sadness and frustration the domineering emotions now. For the first time since she came to Boston, she feels the pull to leave.

When she goes to work the next day, after a night with very little, very restless sleep, her heart grows heavier with every step that brings her nearer to her office where he will already be. Without even noticing, she draws a deep breath before pushing the door open, and she finds – nothing. No Killian. She spins around in slow motion, but it doesn't help – her eyes haven't deceived her. He isn't there. With everyone else, she wouldn't even give it a second thought, but this is Killian Jones. In the two months she's been his partner (only two months, really? Sometimes she thinks it feels like forever) he has never come to work after her, not one single day. It's amazing how fast and firmly panic can grip your heart, and for one terrible, endless minute she really thinks he must have left, simply gone, just like that. She's surprised at the sharp pain.

But before she can react in any way, she hears hasty steps entering the room, and even before she turns around, she knows that it's him, that he's here, and she's almost embarrassed at how relieved she feels; so relieved that she almost wants to sob, but hey, she thought she lost him, and she just can't. She fights the impulse to whirl around on her heel when she remembers the way they parted yesterday and turns slowly instead, only halfway, throwing a glance over her shoulder. “Hey,” she greets him curtly and anxiously tries to read his expression; he still looks a bit upset.

“Swan.” He takes a step nearer, and, when she raises a questioning eyebrow, says in a low voice, “About last night... look, I didn't mean to... I don't...” He seems to stumble over his own words, but Emma smiles and lets out a relieved sigh.

“I'm sorry, too,” she blurts out, which is even more of a surprise to her, because normally, she doesn't do apologies. But the chance to save her friendship with Killian makes her feel almost elated, so she will make an exception. She'd do anything to erase that stupid, pointless fight from her memory. And immediately, his features relax, change to something very similar to what she feels, but mixed with something else (hope?). Somehow he looks like he's about to say something, and an irrational fear of what that might be wells up in her chest, so she quickly continues, “Let's just forget last night ever happened, and just go back to being friends like before.”

She tries to pretend she doesn't notice the way his face falls, just a little, and the ray of hope fades away. His smile looks genuine, but she knows it isn't, because the delicate skin around his eyes doesn't crinkle into all those little laugh lines that always warm her heart. “I was hoping you'd say that,” he finally tells her firmly, and for some reason she doesn't understand she realizes this is not what she wanted to hear, but she pushes that uncomfortable thought away because it makes no sense. No sense at all.

A muscle in Killian's jaw clenches as he watches her turn away from him with another one of those feeble, pale smiles, and he has to force himself not to exit the room and slam the door behind him, simply take a sick leave for today; he surely feels like it. Sick to the stomach with anger at himself, and sick to the heart with the realization that this is it. Angry about stumbling over his own words, his brief hesitation giving her the chance to interrupt him and butt out through the back door again, shutting him down with kindness and friendship.

I didn't mean to... I don't..., he stuttered.

...want you to find some fun with someone else, he wanted to finish.

Yes, after a long and almost sleepless night made up his mind and decided that he needed to take the risk, needed to let her know how he felt, even if she wasn't ready to hear it. He couldn't take the chance that this moment never came. And then when she was so obviously eager to make peace with him, his heart jumped a little in excitement, and that ray of hope gave him the last push to try his luck... But deep down he knew she wasn't yet ready, and that made him hesitate for the fraction of a second in the end. A fraction too long. The perfect opportunity to shut him down, cut him off. He's quite sure that Emma knew – or at least suspected – what he was about to say. And she made it clear that she doesn't want to hear it, that she wants to erase the whole conversation about relationships from her mind.

So yes, this is it. The end of all his illusions that perhaps there could be a chance for him of winning her heart, of defeating her fear. As much as he isn't the one to give up, but even Killian Jones knows when he's beaten. Only two or three more weeks, and she'll be gone, running away from everything, as usually. She won't have to deal with anything, the torment of longing but not daring, of wanting but refusing to pay the price, to take the risk, the leap of faith. In six weeks, she'll already be in a new town, a new job, a new life, empty and miserable, telling herself that everything is fine. She'll find a new partner, drinking buddy, friend – maybe even a friend with benefits, pretending she can have it all without even having anything. And he, he will still be here, having to get acquainted with a new partner, having to pretend that everything's fine, that he's fine; pretend that he's not staring at that hook on the wall behind the office door, missing the red leather jacket that smells of her; pretend that his eyes are not scanning the bar when he performs his songs, checking if she's already there, waiting for him. He will just go on with his life like before, as if nothing ever happened, as if she never existed. As if he never hoped he could have it all.

Except, nothing will ever be like before. And he doesn't want it to.

If over the following time he acts a little strangely, maybe even a little distantly, Emma blames it on the fact that he's mentally preparing himself for the impending goodbye. She's a little disappointed about it, because her intention was to make the best of the remaining time, but seeing him fills her with melancholy, every day a little more. Oh, he's still his kind self, working their cases with the same dedication and accuracy as ever, but there are subtle changes in his behavior with her she just can't fail to notice. His smiles have become more seldom, more feeble; often, they don't seem to reach his eyes, and her heart clenches every time she notices that. They almost never exchange any private words any more, and more than once he makes up stupid excuses why he can't join her during lunch breaks but has to run some important errands. He doesn't tell her anymore to come to the bar when her performs; sure, she knows his usual days by now and can go there if she wants to, but somehow she has the weird feeling he prefers she'd rather not. She doesn't admit it, but it stings. It feels like she's slowly losing him, and of course she'd never admit it, but she feels lost.

She can't wait for her assignment to end, yet she dreads the day it will.

Emma has never been so confused in her entire life.

About ten days after that stupid argument, she's working extra long on a Friday night, because weekends are particularly dreadful nowadays; lots and lots of extra time to think upsetting thoughts. Most of the staff have left already because Friday, Killian has been long gone, so she's startled when the door is opened after a short, firm knock. It's a surprise to see Regina enter the office.

“Miss Swan, a word.” She doesn't even wait until Emma nods before she closes the door behind her. Well, she's the boss, after all. Emma raises her eyebrows in question. Regina walks up to Killian's desk and leans against its edge, legs crossed at the ankles. “So, you know that your assignment expires in two weeks,” she starts.

Emma leans back in her chair and draws a deep breath. The one thing she doesn't want to think about. Of fucking course. “Sure.”

Regina gives a short nod. “Well. What do you think about a permanent job?”

Emma's mouth opens, but it takes her a few seconds until she's able to get something out, and then it's only a single word. “What?”

The brunette rolls her eyes. “Look. I made this company very successful. I'm tough. I'm smart.” She doesn't even blink while saying this, and Emma secretly admires her for it; Regina Mills surely is a woman knowing her own worth. “But,” she continues, “I know the success comes because I hire the right people.” She narrows her eyes and nods her head towards Emma. “And you, Miss Swan, are without a doubt one of the best investigators I ever had.” Despite her current state of mental and emotional turbulence, Emma smiles, but the pleasant feeling of hearing the compliment wanes with Regina's next sentence. “You and Jones, to be more specific,” she adds. “Putting you two together in one team was one of the best decisions I ever made.”

Emma swallows and averts her eyes, not knowing where to look or what to think, a sinking feeling in her heart. “Uh... thank you, Regina...”

“So you're better when you work alone, Miss Swan?” Regina taunts and raises an ironic eyebrow. “Well, I guess you were wrong.” She points her index finger at Emma. “I've never seen two co-workers complement each other like you and Jones do. And the pining doesn't even interfere.” 

Emma's eyes widen in shock. “The what?” she asks indignantly. 

Regina huffs. “Oh please,” she sneers. “Just because I stay out of your hair doesn't mean I don't know what's going on. You two have been making eyes at each other for weeks!” 

Emma shakes her head rapidly and raises her hands in defense. “I don't make eyes!” 

Regina waves her hands impatiently. “Whatever you say, Miss Swan,” she brushes her off, “I'm really not interested in your love life, as long as it doesn't affect your work. And so far, your work is excellent. It would be a shame to break up that team. So.” She pushes away from Killian's desk and already starts to walk towards the door while nonchalantly throwing at Emma, “You get thirty per cent more pay, health insurance and six weeks of paid leave. Think about it.” 

And with that she leaves the room, leaving a completely baffled Emma behind, unaware that she's forcing her to ponder over a decision she never wanted to make. So this is it: if she leaves now, she won't be able to use the excuse that her job assignment is over. If she leaves now, there will be no other reason than she herself deciding that she wants to – and since she will have every reason to stay, leaving will be nothing else than a flight, it's about time she admits that to herself.

But what would she flee from? Until very recently – until that weird argument with Killian, to be more specific – she hasn't even felt the urge to leave, oddly enough. She admits (a little reluctantly, but still) that what made her feel that push was the feeling that she was losing him. But she also realizes why he has seemingly put a bit of distance between them lately: because he's sure he's about to lose her soon, and if her suspicion is correct and he's really interested in more than just a friendship with her, it's a completely natural reaction to pull back before getting invested too much into a not-yet romantic relationship that's already doomed. That's exactly what she would do, hell, what she has been doing all her life. With the exception that according to her, every romantic relationship is doomed. Killian's voice floats through her head, It doesn't have to be like that, you know.

After spending a very restless night, the next evening she's for dinner at her sister's place, like every Saturday; Mary Margaret insists on it. She's chatty and ostensibly lighthearted and so obviously not addressing the elephant in the room – Emma's assignment that's about to end in two weeks. Emma knows how heavy this must weigh on her sister's shoulders, yet nothing indicates it. Obviously she doesn't want to put Emma under pressure or make her feel uncomfortable, and Emma's heart goes out for her sister, feeling once more remorseful for what she put her through over the past years. Anyway, she can't think about anything else than Regina's offer, and her thoughts never stop whirling around in her head, not even while she tries (and miserably fails) to follow the conversation with Mary Margaret and David. 

Right now, since her instincts seem to be confused and barely helpful, she's trying to make a list of pros and cons in her mind, but weirdly enough, she can only come up with pros: accepting Regina's offer would give her the opportunity to stay near her sister, of course, which is the most obvious point. Besides, she loves the work she's doing – and she loves... well, she loves her friendship with Killian. Yes, all in all, the past three months she has felt more of a “home” vibe than in all those years before. Maybe for the first time since her adoptive parents died.

As for her relationship with Killian (or whatever it was) – she could simply stay and just see what happens; she could enjoy the friendship and the almost sure feeling that he would be there whenever she'd feel like being ready to reach out for him as more than just a friend... but that may as well never happen, because maybe she can have everything – nearness, comfort, a feeling of home – even without the risk of heartache and loss that always comes with a romantic relationship... Cowardice, she hears Killian say, and then Mary Margaret's voice wakes her from her thoughts. 

“Emma?”

She blinks twice to slip back into the here and now, and a new wave of love for her sister washes over her when she sees her worried eyes rest upon her face – always preoccupied for her, always there for her, never thinking about herself.

And suddenly she blurts out, “Regina offered me a permanent job.”

That throws Mary Margaret off track, of course. “Uh... that's... interesting.” She exchanges a quick glance with her husband before putting down her fork. “And what... I mean, what do you...”, she almost stumbles a little over her own words, not knowing how to ask without looking pushy or too eager, “...think about it?”

It fills Emma with heartbreak and guilt, seeing the hope and the anxiousness on Mary Margaret's face and the love. Damn, she really put her sister through a wringer those past years. But she knows that the moment she tells Mary Margaret about Regina's offer, her decision has been made – not even she would be as thoughtless and cruel as to offer her sister that ray of hope only to destroy it in the next sentence. She swallows, because this is huge, and presses her lips into an almost shy smile. “I'm gonna need a new apartment.” Mary Margaret doesn't get it right away, she narrows her eyes for a moment, and Emma adds, “Think you could help me find a nicer one?”

The smile is so big that it threatens to split Mary Margaret's heart-shaped face in half, and immediately her eyes start to glitter, but she maintains her countenance – still anxious not to overwhelm Emma. Because she knows how huge this is. “Sure,” she replies almost nonchalantly, “any time you like, little sister.”

Emma is touched that she reverted to that old banter from their youth days. “Younger sister,” she corrects, and both women look down on their plates again, watery smiles shining on their beautiful faces. David just smiles and shakes his head to himself. Mary Margaret and her hope speeches. And wasn't she right again?

Mary Margaret is surprised and a little disappointed when Emma gets up from her chair as soon as the dessert is eaten; she has hoped to inquire a little more about her decision, to ascertain it's lasting. But she's immediately satisfied when Emma remarks with a smile, “We'll have plenty of time to spend together,” and adds a little shyly, “I need to see someone.”

“Oh.” Mary Margaret raises both hands and beams, “I see. Of course. Go, go!”

Emma rolls her eyes but suppresses the urge to tell her sister that it's not what she thinks because she isn't sure what she thinks, actually, she isn't sure of anything at all. All she knows is that she wants to tell Killian the news right away without having to wait until Monday morning.

When she knocks at his door – she knows where he lives because she drove him home once when a downpour happened – a strange, completely unusual nervousness has gripped her. She draws a deep breath and rubs her palms on the legs of her jeans, trying to dry them. Impatiently, she knocks a second time before realizing that he's not home. She doesn't want to tell him on the phone what she has to say, and so she decides to look for him at the only place she can think of: the bar.

The moment she walks in, she already hears the guitar, and she's relieved to have found him. Staying a little at the back of the room, she watches his performance, and it's very melancholic and sad today, some old sappy tear jerker, and she smiles to herself, thinking her news will make him feel better. She feels guilt at the realization that his song choice is probably due to the situation between them and their impending goodbye – and that it elates her somehow, because it means he cares.

“Waiting at the station  
Tears filling up my eyes  
Sometimes the pain you hide  
Burns like a fire inside

Looked out my window  
Sometimes it's hard to see  
Things you want in life  
Come and go so easily.”

He doesn't let his eyes sweep across the room, like he normally does; he seems to be completely lost in his song. Not in the performance, but in the song itself – it's like he's singing only to himself, a melancholic monologue of pain. His eyes are closed as the words flow from his mouth, and the lost expression on his face is something she has never seen on him before. His voice sounds rougher than usual today, rugged at the edges, broken almost.

“She took the last train  
Out of my heart, oh  
She took the last train  
Now I think I'll make a brand new start  
She took the last train  
Out of my heart.” 

Emma deliberately stays at the back of the room; she doesn't want to draw any attention to herself, and being basically a regular, people would notice her. After that stupid, heartbreaking song, Killian finally takes a break, leaves his guitar on the stand and steps down from the small pedestal. That's exactly the moment when he sees her there in her dimly lit, a little secluded corner. She waves almost shyly, and after hesitating only ever-so shortly, he walks over to her.

“Swan”, he greets her, barely smiling, and steps into the shadows next to her, “what are you doing here?”

“Way to say hello,” she replies teasingly, but he's obviously not in the mood; maybe he's still caught up in the melancholy of the song. Well, she can't wait to put a smile on his face. “I'm not leaving,” she blurts out.

He holds up his hands. “Whoa, nobody's telling you to leave,” he retorts. “I was just wondering–“

“No,” she interrupts with a smile, “I meant I'm not leaving Boston. I'm staying in town.”

For a few moments, he remains silent, his expression unreadable. That's odd – she expected him to be shocked, but he seems almost... detached? “Oh,” he says after a while and raises an eyebrow, “how so?”

She's a bit thrown off track by his reaction... or lack thereof. Shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, she explains, “Regina offered me a permanent job.”

“Hm.” He tilts his head, “Told you she would.”

Emma starts to feel nervous, catching a very unsettling vibe between them. It feels awkward, but it's more than just that, somehow. What the hell is wrong with him? “Yeah,” she shrugs, “I thought it's about time to...”, she sways a little back and forth on the balls of her feet before she finally adds, “settle down.” Raising her chin, she looks at him expectantly.

“I'm glad you feel that way,” he says a little stiffly after a while, and it sounds rather lame. She waits for him to say more, but obviously he doesn't intend to. Something's not right here.

She runs both hands through her hair, combs it behind her ears with all ten fingers. “You don't seem...” she starts, gets lost and tries again, “I mean, I guess I expected you to be a little more... I don't know...” Her voice drifts off, and she gesticulates with her right hand, an aimless, almost helpless move. Happy, she wants to say, but her elation has evaporated somehow, and he doesn't look happy at all. In fact, he looks alarmingly uncomfortable – something that has never happened between them; they have always been comfortable with each other.

Killian shuffles his feet uneasily now. “Funny, isn't it?” he asks, and she gets the sinking feeling that what she's about to hear won't be funny at all. “You're taking on a permanent job,” he continues, “and I...” His voice drifts off while he averts his eyes, and this feels wrong, so wrong, because the Killian Jones she knows isn't evasive and lacking in words like this. Never.

A cold, bony hand grips her heart. “You what?” she urges.

He draws a deep breath and looks into her eyes again. “I just got a surprise offer for a temporary assignment.”

It's like she's been sucker-punched. “What does that mean?” she hears herself ask.

He scratches behind his ear and averts his eyes again. “A project for the Royal Navy,” he murmurs. “An old friend of mine called the other day.”

“The Royal Navy?” she echoes, her voice full of shock and disbelief. “The... the one in England?”  
Now he looks back at her with his damn piercing blue eyes and tilts his head once in a barely perceptible nod. “Aye.”

Her lips feel like they've gone numb. “Temporary?” she finally manages. “As in...?”

“At least a year,” he replies, “two, if it's a success.”

It feels like the rug's being pulled from under Emma's feet. She licks her lips. “And will you... are you considering it?”

His gaze on her is firm and steady now; he seems to have found his assurance again. His expression is still unreadable, though. “It's a great offer,” he replies. “Of course I'm considering it.”

“But you've no one there!” she blurts out, not even trying to hide anymore how upset she is. “What are you gonna do there?”

“I grew up there,” he reminds her, “it's my home.”

“Bullshit!” she spits and shoots her finger at him like a bullet. “Did you forget what you told me? That after you lost your brother and everything else that happened it didn't feel like home anymore?”

He runs his hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I felt like that back then, yes,” he admits. “But–”

“You're running away!” she interrupts fervently.

Killian's eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?!” 

Has his voice been tired and weary before, now there's a good bit of annoyance seeping into it. Emma's news did shock him; he expected Regina's offer, but he never expected Emma to actually stay. It is, without a doubt, a huge progress for her. But still – it's not like it changes anything between them. He knows she could – and probably would – carry on just like before, for months, maybe even years. And he – he just can't. But now she's here and seemingly all proud and eager to tell him, and obviously she expected him to do a happy dance about her decision, which already angers him a little. Because how can she think he'd be happy about this pointless back and forth, about being stuck in the middle of nowhere, frozen and numb? And now she's accusing him of running away? She really has some nerve.

“Why would I be running away?” he growls.

“Maybe because things are not going your way!” she snaps, and he can't believe his own ears, feeling anger slowly bubble up inside.

“Well, you would know,” he replies sharply, “the lass who kept running for half of her life!”

She throws her hands in the air in exasperation. “And now I just told you that I... I...”, she licks her lips again nervously, “I want to stop running!”

“Well, good for you!” he snarls. “Your sister will be happy.”

She glares at him for full ten seconds before she speaks. “See?” she presses through clenched teeth, barely veiled fury in her voice. “This is why I'm running. So I can leave before people can leave me!”

“Leave you?” he echoes in disbelief. “Bloody hell, what are you even–” But he falls silent when he sees the expression on her face: raw and wounded and lost.

Emma shakes her head fervently, and suddenly he detects a suspicious shimmer in her eyes and frowns, waiting for her to speak. “I thought we were... we...” She stumbles over her own words, gesticulating helplessly, and he leans slightly forward, listening attentively, still ignoring the ray of hope that started to blossom in his chest after her first fierce reaction to his news, he admits it now. “I thought we were friends,” she finally gets out, and his heart sinks again, heavy with disappointment. Of course. Still friends, just friends. Nothing more. Friends like before. As in not dating. “Friends don't leave each other,” she adds feebly, in an almost desperate tone.

He draws a deep breath and takes a step back, away from her. His voice is weary. “Sometimes they do, Swan.”

“Yeah,” she spits, her green eyes firing furious lightning bolts his way, “why would I think you were different?”

He runs his fingers through his hair again in a brusque attempt to channel his ire, and his uproar seems to show in the way his hair stands out in angry spikes now. "What the bloody fuck do you want?" he barks, so upset that his accent shows more than usual.

"I don't know!" she snaps back, hands balled into fists at her sides. Seconds stretch into ages before she draws a deep breath and blurts out, "You."

For a few moments Killian hears nothing but his own heartbeat thrumming and his own blood rushing in his ears, drowning the noises of the bar. Without noticing, he clenches his jaw, his voice coming out flat and strained. “Well. Alas, I told you already I'm not available for... scratching an itch.” He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows with a questioning look and a silent urge to Emma: say something – now's your chance. But she seems to be frozen, and when she just blankly stares back at him he resigns, and his shoulders slump a little. When he averts his eyes and is about to turn around, away from her, she seems to snap out of her paralyzed state. 

Her voice comes in barely more than a whisper, yet he can hear it loud and clear above the cacophony of sounds. "That is not... what I'm looking for." 

Killian freezes mid-move and turns to her again, scrutinizing her questioningly. She sways slightly back an forth on the balls of her feet, her eyes dropped down to her feet. "Look, I... I haven't... scratched that itch for a long time.” She shakes her head with an incredulous little smile, as if she's mocking herself. “The evening we met here at the bar,” she continues, “I went home alone that night. And every following night since then.” Finally, she looks at him again, and he sees that's she's honest, still raw, but there's also something else in her eyes, something like... hope.

He takes a step nearer again, closing the distance he tried to put between them before. "Why?" he asks softly. 

Emma shrugs. "Because it just didn't feel... right. Like it wasn't enough anymore."

He needs a moment to grasp the meaning of her words, a warmth spreading in his chest when he hears his own words repeated by her. “What about having fun with no strings attached?” he wants to know. “Get to the good stuff easily?”

She nods. “That's the point. You see, I... I feel like...”, she chews on her bottom lip for a moment, and her gaze drifts past him when she's searching for the right words, “like I'm missing out on the good stuff.”

“So when you say you want me, you mean...?” Her eyes fly to his again, and for the first time he smiles and gives her a barely perceptible, encouraging nod.

She swallows nervously and licks her lips. “Look, I'm not good at this. Actually, I... I suck.” Her shoulders slump a little. “Really big time. I don't know what to do.”

“Well, you're here,” he replies in a gentle tone. “That's a start."

She looks at her feet again and snorts an ironic laugh. “Yeah, well... too late, I guess?” Her voice is trembling a little when she refers to the temporary assignment he mentioned.

“I said I was considering it,” he clarifies, “not that I've accepted. And you were right.” When she frowns questioningly, he explains, “I was planning to run away.”

She chews on her lower lip again and he thinks he'll have to soothe the marks later, and he plans to do that very thoroughly. “Why?” she asks feebly.

He tilts his head in a shrug. “Because even if you'd decide to stay, I couldn't bear to see you every day when you wanted me to be nothing more than just a friend.”

“Oh.” She shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans again, her gaze fluttering across his face as if trying to decipher him, desperately looking for confirmation that she hasn't misunderstood what he just said. He notices, of course. It tugs painfully at his heart that she's still feeling insecure about him, that she still can't seem to believe she could make him long for her that much, and not in a physical way. And yet, in spite of all her insecurities, she finally took a leap of faith and revealed her longing for him. A wave of affection for this lost girl and all her courage and strength washes over him.

He waits for her eyes to focus on his again, to be sure he has her full attention, before he raises his right hand to touch her hair and let one of her locks run through his fingers. “But with what you just told me,” he says slowly, his lips curving into a loving smile, “I don't have a reason to run anymore.”

Emma swallows, but then she allows herself a smile and a quick glance at his lips. “And now?” she inquires a little helplessly.

“Now...” His fingers are still lingering in her hair, and then his thumb slowly brushes along her jawline, making her skin tingle, until it comes to rest at the little dimple in her chin. “I need to play a few more songs,” he murmurs in a low voice, “you could wait for me?”

She seems to get a bit of her confidence back and throws him a surprisingly flirty look from under her long eyelashes, and he feels like there and then, on a dull Saturday night in this dimly lit bar, the sun has risen. “Will you let me buy you a drink afterwards?” she asks; playful is her tone, but the underlying meaning of her question is not lost to him.

“No,” he answers firmly, “not today.”

She smiles, and it looks like she's getting the hang of it. “Does that mean we're dating?”

He cocks his head to the side, and his smirk teases her fondly. “Didn't you just basically ask me to ask you out?”

Emma rolls her eyes and smacks his upper arm with the back of her hand, but there's not much fervor behind it; it's more like a caress. “Go pick your guitar, Jones,” she tells him and he laughs.

“As you wish.” Reaching for her hand, he pulls her with him, out of the shadows and into the buzz of the bar. He deposits her at her favorite stool and gives the barkeeper a nod. “A rum for the lady, Rob.” Squeezing her fingers he adds, “The good stuff.” But he looks at her when he says that. She presses her lips into another smile, and he brushes a kiss to her knuckles before he lets go of her hand and makes his way to the small stage in the middle of the room where his guitar is waiting for him.

When he takes the right position on his seat and places his guitar on his left thigh, Emma settles comfortably and props up her elbow on the bar, her chin in her hand. While he inclines his head over his instrument and positions his skilled fingers on the strings, she lets her gaze wander over his figure and features, and it's like she's seeing him for the first time, seeing him with different eyes. She's watched him perform many times over the last three months, and she's always acknowledged his good looks, even allowed herself some curious thoughts about how his skin would feel against her lips, how his chest hair would tickle her fingertips... or how his fingertips would feel pressed into her thigh. But those were nothing but daydreams, never meant to become real one day. Which was why she allowed herself having them.

But now she could look at him and ask herself all those question with the certainty that she would know the answer to them soon. Emma's heart seems to be stuck right up in her throat, and she has difficulties breathing when she thinks about what just happened: she has told Killian Jones that she wants him. And not just in a sexual way, she has made that clear. Not just his body and his friendship, no, all of him. His heart and his soul. It's pretty damn terrifying, but it also fills her with an excitement and warmth and also something else, and she suspects that must be happiness.

He plays the first tunes, and her lips curve into a smile when she immediately recognizes the song, even before he sings the first lines in his powerful baritone.

“You know you're a   
Cute little heartbreaker – foxy”

He raises his head, his eyes searching for her, and when he sees that she's smiling at him he licks his lips, and she knows he does it on purpose.

“You know you're a  
Sweet little lovemaker – foxy”

His voice is suggestive, almost lascivious now, and she knows it's all for her, and there are a thousand butterflies stirring up her guts in the most pleasurable way. She remembers the first time she saw him, he was performing that song, and she couldn't think of anything else than how hot he was and how desperately she wanted to bang him, a nameless man with pretty blue eyes, a sensual voice and gorgeous hands. Now all she can think of is, he's mine and he's not gonna go anywhere. 

After that, he performs two more songs, both light and powerful and sexy, and he's looking at her almost the whole time. When he's finished and leaves the stage, putting away his guitar first and then sauntering over to where she's sitting, she smiles in eager anticipation, and she thinks that she hasn't smiled that much in a long time.

“Excuse me,” he says when he's standing beside her, his eyes glittering with a devilish twinkle, “is this seat taken?” He motions to the stool on her left, and she waves her hand in an inviting move.

“It's yours if you want it.”

Killian tilts his head in an approving nod. “With pleasure,” he comments, and they both know they are not talking about the seat. He sits down and leans close to her, briefly pressing his lips to her temple, and she has to hold in her breath because of the tenderness and the casual intimacy that both seem so natural – and, much to her own surprise, don't bother her at all. On the contrary, she likes it.

“So... you're going to tell Regina on Monday?” he asks in a casual tone after ordering two more drinks. “That you accept her offer?” His nonchalant smile cannot hide the trace of worry lying underneath. Of course, after the first euphoria he's unsure if she might change her mind in the end. She can't even blame him, and she doesn’t. 

Instead, Emma smiles again, radiating off all the happiness and peacefulness she feels. Oh, she's still afraid of the future, because that doesn't go away just like that – years of loneliness and isolation have left their marks. She knows that. But she also knows that she wants that future. She wants it in this town, with her family. With Killian. God, that thought is so frightening, but also so... warm.

“Yeah,” she replies lightly, “I'm gonna tell her she got herself the best investigator.”

“Uh, uh,” he playfully scolds and holds up his finger, “the best team, you mean.”

She huffs a little laugh. “Actually, Regina did say something along the lines like never change a winning team.”

“Ah.” He tilts his head and raises his glass with a smirk. “I'll drink to that.”

When he's about to take a sip, Emma stops his hand in mid-air with her fingertips to his wrist. “Easy there, Jones.” He raises his eyebrows at her in question, and she gives him a playful smile from under her long eyelashes. “You have to... savor it.” 

Killian puts his other hand over hers, grazing his thumb across her palm before pulling it to his lips instead of the glass. Then he presses a kiss to her fingertips, his gaze never leaving hers, and replies in a low voice, “Oh, I'm planning to.” The devilish sparkle in his eyes warms her stomach, and now she finds flirting is so much more rewarding when there's more behind it than just going for a quick lay. It feels like promises of exciting, slightly dangerous but wonderful things. Not just one-time things.

They don't stay much longer, and they don't really talk, especially not about in-depth things, but there's a warmth and trust building between them between the looks and little touches they share, a mutual understanding and a growing casual intimacy. Shortly past midnight, he walks her home. When they are inside her apartment building and standing in front of her apartment door, she nervously fumbles for the keys, and when she finally finds them, she just freezes and looks at him, not sure what to do. She has never done this, taken a guy to her place, and especially not with the intention of making it more than just a romp in the sheets.

As if he senses her nervousness, he leans in, slowly gravitating into her personal space, and the closer he comes, the calmer she gets. He reaches around her, his left arm around her waist, gently nudging her closer still, and his right hand at the back of her head, and her eyelids flutter shut. Then his lips are on hers in the softest of kisses, a little tentative at first, then becoming firmer, but never hard or aggressive (which isn't a bad thing, not at all, but not what she needs right now). It's slow and thorough and very, very sensual. Kissing Killian isn't something she does for the first time, and she remembers how it felt back then, the softness of his lips paired with the obvious skills and the promise of... more. Although on the evening they met for the first time, when Emma assaulted him in the vestibule of the bar the kiss was far more dirty, more physical, this one is much more intimate, and she feels the heat spread everywhere inside. She wraps her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair, and reciprocates, and this is another new thing: the realization that savoring it, nice and slow, can be so much better than just getting to the good stuff fast. Actually, this might be the good stuff.

After a while that could have been minutes or hours, who knows, they break apart very reluctantly, their foreheads still pressed together, sharing air in heavy breaths and smiles.

Emma licks her lips before she speaks, still breathlessly, “Do you want to...” She lets her voice drift off, lets her shining eyes and her caressing fingers speak for her.

Killian swallows. “More than you know,” he replies with some effort, his voice husky and low, “but it wouldn't be right.”

For a terrible second, Emma has a déjà-vû of that first evening when he flat-out turned her down. Of course, she knows better now, but still... “But I–“

“You're emotional,” he interrupts softly, “confused. Exhausted.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not–“

Tenderly, he takes her face in both hands and leans his forehead against hers once more. “Swan,” he almost whispers, “if you wake up tomorrow and find that all this isn't a completely bad idea, and you still want me, I'm yours for the taking.”

She's touched that he respects her so much, that he still wants to make it clear that it's up to her, that he wants her to understand he's serious and not going anywhere and in this for the long haul. And maybe he also wants a bit of reassurance for himself, maybe he's just the tiniest bit afraid that she might eventually change her mind if she goes about the thing too fast. Again, she can't blame him for that, shows it only that he's in head over heels already. So, she presses her lips into a small smile and nods. “Okay.” Leaning back a little, she looks him deep in the eyes. “Will you make it worthwhile?”

Killian's eyes darken a little, just that tiny bit that makes her skin tingle while he grazes his thumbs across her cheeks. “Oh yes, I will. Trust me.”

She kisses him goodnight before she lets go of him reluctantly.

The next morning it's not even eight when she bangs at his door, armed with a nervous smile and a brown paper bag filled with croissants. It takes a while before he opens the door, and he looks like he hasn't been awake for a long time. From what he's told her she knows that he is an early riser, but it's Sunday, and maybe he's had some sleep issues lately, who knows. Anyway, he's wearing a black v-neck tee and comfortable-looking grey sweatpants, and he's barefoot. His hair is a desperate mess, looking like he's run his fingers through it several times, and his whole attire makes her think that he's just rolled out of bed, and that thought is... appealing.

His eyes still look a bit heavy-lidded, but that doesn't take away anything from their gorgeousness (it even adds to it), but they twinkle happily when he sees her. He raises his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth twitch. “Isn't it a little early for a Sunday morning?” he inquires in a teasing tone.

Emma licks her lips and swallows, her mouth dry all of a sudden. “I know. I woke up early.” She smiles at him, it's an enticing mixture between shy and proud, and to him it's brighter than the sun itself. He can't help but give it back. She remembers the paper bag in her hand and raises it. “I have croissants,” she announces and goes on, “I still find this isn't a completely bad idea,” a hint of pink flushing her cheeks when she draws a deep breath to declare firmly, “and I still want you.”

He swallows hard, the pride and, yes, love he feels for her almost choking him. “I'm very glad to hear that.”

She lifts her chin in determination. “So... are you gonna let me in or what?” Only the slightest trembling in her voice betrays her nervousness.

Killian tilts his head in a nod that says you bet I am and steps aside, opening his apartment door wide for her. She enters without hesitating, waits until he has closed the door behind her and turns to him. He hasn't asked her anything, and knowing him, she doesn't even expect him to. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have questions, and she doesn't want the shadow of a doubt hanging between them. He seems to sense that something's on her mind – doesn't he always? – and waits for her to speak, the soft gleam in his eyes and the slight smile tugging at his mouth encouraging her. 

She draws a deep breath. “Look. You're probably wondering if I'm gonna change my mind about... this. And I couldn't even blame you,” she adds a little sheepishly. “But I can assure you that–“

“Swan,” he interrupts, and she falls silent – terrified for the fraction of a second that he might have changed his mind. But then that slight smile turns into a big grin full of happiness and tease and promises. “You had me at croissants.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The totally unnecessary, self-indulging, M rated epilogue. Just because I can.

_Early on Sunday morning Emma shows up with a bag of croissants at Killian's place to tell him that she still thinks this isn't a bad idea and that she wants him. Of course, he's overjoyed and lets her in._

 

_She draws a deep breath. “Look. You're probably wondering if I'm gonna change my mind about... this. And I couldn't even blame you,” she adds a little sheepishly. “But I can assure you that–“_

 

“ _Swan,” he interrupts, and she falls silent – terrified for the fraction of a second that he might have changed his mind. But then that slight smile turns into a big grin full of happiness and tease and promises. “You had me at 'croissants'.”_

 

 

Killian's eyes are glittering with mischief, laugh lines crinkling the fine skin around them, and Emma smacks him hard in the chest with the back of her hand. “Oh, you fucking–”

 

She never gets to finish her sentence, because with one step he braces the distance between them and pounces on her. Wrapping his left arm around her waist in a fluent move, he entangles his right hand in her hair and shuts up her protest with a searing kiss. She stumbles from the impact of his sensual assault and finds herself pushed up against the wall, dropping her bag of croissants to the floor with a dull thud. He's pressed so close against her that she can't bring her arms up to wrap them around his neck, so she slides them around his mid, palms flat against his back, enjoying the warmth of his body and the rippling of his muscles through the fabric of his t-shirt.

 

The kiss escalates quickly and becomes more heated with every press of their lips, every stroke of their tongues, and he's leaning fully against her, the whole length of his body aligned with hers. It is very obvious that his attitude has changed; the evening before, when he walked her home, he kissed her tentatively, carefully – like a man anxious not to overwhelm or pressure her, always cautious not to scare her off. But today, there's nothing of that in his kiss. Killian kisses her with passion and self-confidence, like a man who doesn't feel the need to hold back anymore, a man who knows exactly what he wants and who is determined to take it, because he sees and trusts how freely it's offered to him. A man determined to give her everything in return.

 

Soon, the kiss gets heated and a bit sloppy, and somehow Emma feels the need to take this to the next level, so she pushes away from the wall a little, making room for herself to move. He frowns at first when he feels her push, but then he sees the purpose: she struggles to shrug off her leather jacket and lets it carelessly fall to the floor where it lands with a dry rustling sound, all the while never taking her mouth off of Killian's. Immediately, as if he's just waited for some sort of signal, his hands slide underneath her sweater, and she shivers at the feeling of his palms against her bare skin. They are warm and a little rough, but smooth at the same time, firm yet sensual as they span her waist, fingers spread and pressing into her flesh. His hands feel exactly like she imagined they would when she daydreamed about them touching her: strong, determined, but also gentle and sensitive – these are the hands of a man who knows what he wants and knows what he's doing. His thumbs are slowly traveling along her lower ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and she raises her arms in an unspoken invitation.

 

Killian understands and pulls her sweater over her head in an almost brusque move, tossing it to the floor, then he wraps his arms around her waist again and presses back against her. This time she slides her hands up his arms until they rest on his biceps while they stand almost motionless for a few moments, like frozen in time, stares sunk into each other, foreheads touching.

 

Emma whispers breathlessly, “Wow, you really like French pastry, don't you?”

 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he replies with a smirk, “I like a lot of French things.”

 

The glint in his eyes is nothing short of devilish when he dives into the kiss again, and Emma is getting the hang of it, is adjusting to kissing him like this, with fervor and passion and dirty intentions. She gives as good as she gets, and the next moment she's taking the lead, and he lets her. Leaving his mouth with hers and kissing along his chiseled jawline, his scruff, even thicker than usual, because it's Sunday morning, making her lips prickle. She kisses and licks her way down the side of his neck, nibbling along his strong cords, teasing with her tongue the constellation of freckles she's always been secretly front of. His skin is warm and tastes a little salty, and she never wants to taste anything else again.

 

She slides her hands from his shoulders and around his torso, down his back where they come to rest on his firm ass. Gripping it, she pulls him flush against her and draws in a sharp breath when she notices that his soft sweatpants do nothing to hide his arousal. He lets his head fall back, overwhelmed for a moment by the sensation of Emma Swan pressing herself against his growing erection. A feral growl rumbles deep in his throat while she's just nipping at his Adam's apple, and she hums in contentment against his skin.

 

Suddenly, Killian pulls back a little, tightens his grip on her bare waist and spins her around in a surprising move that has her make a panting noise, disorients her for a second. He grasps her wrists and pins her hands against the wall above her head. Emma gasps in surprise, but there's also a lot of arousal in the sound she makes, he notices with devilish delight. He leans heavily into her from behind, holding her in place with his hands and his body, and she can feel his hard erection grind against her still jeans-clad backside. He rolls his hips into her once in a dirty move and brings his mouth close to her left ear, flicking his tongue along the shell. When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly.

 

“Tell me, Swan,” – he loosens his grip on her wrists and lets his hands wander slowly down along the undersides of her arms – “what do you want?”

 

She moans shamelessly as his hands glide further down across her breasts with firm, possessive pressure, palms at first and thumbs following, giving her already taut nipples an extra stroke that shoots a bolt of white hot heat right to her core. Her hips roll back against his as if they have a will of their own, because she needs to feel that delicious hardness against her ass again.

 

“You,” she pants, “I want you.” She almost combusts on the spot when she feels his tongue trace the outline of her ear shell again and adds breathlessly, “Take me to bed.” _Fuck me_ , she wants to say at first, but somehow it doesn't feel right. Because what's about to happen, what she wants, _needs_ from him is just _so_ much more. It terrifies her, but she wants it, _God_ , she wants it. She wants _him_ , all of him.

 

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice softer now, and she turns around in his arms and focuses on his face again, on his smile, and it's pure and loving, the smile of an angel, and she feels so safe that she would follow him to the end of the world, or time, if he asked her to.

 

He pulls her back into his embrace and she eagerly follows, wrapping her arms around his neck again, holding on close while she raises her face to him to meet his lips for another kiss. Was the last one hungry, maybe even greedy, this one's deep and thorough, a little gentler, but nonetheless of a scorching passion. Emma feels more than she sees – her eyes are closed anyway – that Killian turns them around lightly, like if he's practicing a fancy dancing twirl, and starts to walk her backwards in slow, careful steps. She's never been in his apartment and has to walk blindly and without any idea where she's headed to, but she doesn't hesitate one bit and follows his lead without the slightest reservation, feeling completely safe in his arms. She lets him steer her through the apartment until they stop and he breaks the kiss for a moment, loosening his embrace. Almost reluctantly, she opens her eyes and quickly scans the room, thrilled to see he led her to his bedroom. The bed in the otherwise neat room hasn't been made yet, and the pillow still bears the print of his head. When she turns his eyes to him again, she notices he's scrutinizing her intently, as if he's looking for any hints that she's not comfortable or maybe having second thoughts.

 

So, she regales him with a reassuring smile and reaches out with her right hand to playfully tug at the hem of his t-shirt. “You're wearing too many clothes,” she whispers breathlessly.

 

He grins. “That can be remedied.” And with one quick lift of his arms, he pulls off the garment and tosses it away.

 

“Better,” she replies and lets her eyes roam shamelessly over his body – she has never been shy to appreciate the assets of an attractive man, false shame is ridiculous to her. And there's a lot of him to appreciate, from his chiseled collarbones and strong shoulders over his toned chest and decently defined abs. The generous, but not overwhelming amount of dark body hair sprinkled across his torso makes her fingers itch to touch it, to feel the soft coarseness against her palms and trace the line that leads down across the planes of his stomach and disappears into his sweatpants. Those are forming a tent over the solid bulge inside them, and a rush of heat floods right to Emma's core at the mere sight of it.

 

He stands still for a moment to allow her fond perusal, and when she reaches out for him, he playfully raises his index finger at her to stop her. “Ah,” he scolds and raises his eyebrows, “no touching until we're even.”

 

She frowns, but then he tilts his head and motions vaguely to her chest, and she understands. Batting her eyelashes at him, she takes one step nearer and turns around, presenting him the clasp of her bra. “Just help yourself,” she invites him.

 

She gathers her hair over her right shoulder and waits, an expectant smile curling the corners of her mouth. He makes her wait for a few moments, and she's sure he does it on purpose, before he lays his fingertips lightly on her shoulder blades. They caress across her skin before working the clasp expertly, undoing it in the blink of an eye. Emma draws a deep breath when she feels the garment loosen, and he puts his hands on the curve of her shoulders, sliding them slowly down her arms while bringing along the straps of her bra. She has her hands clasped in front of her stomach a little nervously and untangles her fingers when Killian slips the lacy garment down her forearms, so that it can fall from her hands and leave her bare. She expects him to urge her to turn around again so that he can admire her, touch her – her nipples harden at the mere thought – but he takes his time, strokes his warm palms across her stomach and pulls her gently flush against him. The sensation of his coarse chest hair against the skin of her back makes her shiver while the circle of his arms wraps her in safety and warmth.

 

But then all feelings of coziness are replaced by burning desire, because he rolls his hips into her again, his hardness tempting her, and his hot breath licks at the side of her throat when he murmurs into her ear, "Now you may touch."

 

She can feel the little hairs on her arms bristle, and the skin on the nape of her neck prickles deliciously. He loosens his embrace a bit and allows her to turn around again to face him. For a few moments they stand opposite each other, their stares locked and their eyes dark with desire, then Killian drops his eyes to her breasts and runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, its tip peeking out to wet his lower lip.

 

"You're a bloody marvel," he whispers hoarsely and raises his right hand to touch her. Emma feels goosebumps break out on her whole upper body at the anticipation of his touch on her breasts, but it's not what she expects. He just brushes his knuckles very lightly all the way down from the little nook at the base of her throat, following the valley of her breasts and across her flat stomach until it's stopped by the hem of her jeans, and now she holds in her breath, but obviously he has no intention to go there – yet. He lets his hand fall away from her body, and when his eyes meet hers again, they are clearly inviting her, maybe even challenging her; the little twinkle in the corners suggests it.

 

Whatever it is, she follows the call, leans forward and tentatively puts both her hands to his hipbones where his sweatpants hang dangerously – _temptingly_ – low. She can't wait to go _there_. Caressing his waist with her thumbs, she tilts her head a little to the right and presses her lips to his left collarbone. When her mouth slides along his flesh, she can feel the heat and the mad thrumming of his jugular vein and tastes, like before, the salt on his skin. She hums against his sternum when she gets there, a deep breath filling her nostrils with his heavenly scent – warm and spicy and with only the faintest trace of his cologne; at this time of the day, before he's even showered, his very own scent lays above everything else. She's not going to deny it, it makes her dizzy in the best way. His chest hair feels coarse against her lips, and she kisses her way down languidly.

 

After a few moments, he stops her a little unexpectedly with his hand in her hair, slightly tugging until she tips her head back and looks at him questioningly. His expression is a mix between completely enchanted and positively roguish, as if he's ready to worship her and ravish her in the dirtiest way. He cocks his head to the side and shakes it once in an incredulous move. “Emma, the things you do to me... you have no idea.”

 

She raises on her tiptoes, but she's still a bit dizzy, her kiss is sloppy and lands on the corner of his slightly open mouth. “Show me, then,” she breathes.

 

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and brings both hands to the button of her jeans again, effortlessly popping it open and pulling down the zipper. She's not even aware that she's holding in her breath when he pushes her jeans down until mid-thigh; but when he gives her a quick, unexpected push which has her land on her backside and elbows on his bed, the held-in breath comes out in a surprised huff. “Hey!” she laughs but holds up one foot to him, then the other, so that he can remove the boots she's still wearing and tug her jeans down her legs with a forceful pull. When she's left only in her lace panties – yes, she put on her nice undies this morning – she sits up again and reaches out for him with both arms, because _damn_ , those sweatpants need to fall now.

 

But Killian leans quickly forward, forcing her to plop back onto her elbows again, and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of her. He brings his face so close to hers that their noses are almost touching and tilts his head to the side in a challenging manner. “Not so fast,” he murmurs in a low voice, and Emma feels desire stir deeply in her belly. Her gaze drops to his lips, and the way he pulls them into a devilish smirk makes her stomach flutter even more. “You want the good stuff,” he says gravelly, voice low and dark, “you have to _earn_ it.”

 

She doesn't know what kind of game he's playing, but _God_ , she's here for it. She can feel her core clench with need. “What do you want me to do?” she asks, her voice barely more than a breathy whisper.

 

“Just be a good girl,” he replies and quirks his eyebrow, “lay back and let me show you how it's done _properly_.” His hot breath brushes her lips, and she thinks she has never been more aroused in her entire life.

 

When he sees that she's going to surrender, he nods in approval and pushes himself off the mattress again, sinking down on his knees in front of her. Emma watches in fascination as he hooks his fingers in the elastic of her pants. “I told you I would make it worthwhile,” he murmurs in a husky voice, “and I will.” He tugs at her panties, and she lifts her hips a bit at his unspoken demand and lets him pull them down. After he's tossed them over his shoulder, he puts his hands to her knees and nudges them gently open, smiling when she eagerly obliges. Both her breathing and her heartbeat quicken as he moves forward to kneel between her legs and strokes the backs of his hands ever-so-lightly along the inside of her thighs.

 

Killian's eyes leave hers and wander downward, and she can feel them almost physically skimming over her body, like a caress. Finally, his mesmerized gaze falls on her core, open and ready, waiting for him, and she can nearly feel it swell with need.

 

Almost absentmindedly he murmurs, “I've been dreaming about this for a long time...” He lifts his gaze to hers again, and his hungry expression would make her knees buckle if she weren't already sitting down. His sinful tongue darts out to wet his lips before he adds, “And now I'm going to savor it... nice and slow.”

 

And with that, he leans slowly forward, and she has every intention to watch him, because _yes_ , she has imagined this, too – to see his dark head between her thighs while he's pleasuring her like she'd wished for that first evening. She has fantasized about this a few times, before she even dared to imagine having any sort of relationship with him. She has conjured this very image before her inner eye while releasing the throbbing tension tormenting her. What she didn't expect in her daydreams though were his eyes that are never leaving hers, his predatory gaze holding hers while he finally brings his mouth down to where she aches for him. The blue of his irises has turned into a dark midnight blue, and his eyes are burning into hers, that roguish spark lurking in their corners, as the tip of his devil tongue flicks over her clit for the first time.

 

Emma refuses to falter at first, and it's just her heart rate and her breathing speeding up even more and tiny beads of perspiration breaking out on her upper lip and on her neck – she can feel it prickle. But then he closes his lips firmly around her nub and starts to suck gently, his hum of appreciation at the taste of her on his tongue sending vibrations through her, and she loses the fight. Her eyes flutter shut and her head falls back, so she caves and lets herself sink flat on the mattress, her fingers searching and finding their way into his hair.

 

Killian knows she's used to do this fast and without unnecessary delay, and part of him wants to give her what she wants which she isn't ashamed to show, sighing and writhing under his ministrations. But this is about more than just getting her off, so much more. This is about falling and catching, trusting and reaching out and touching – touching her mind, her heart and her soul, showing her that he's not just going to do what's necessary to give her satisfaction so that he in return can take what he needs. He's determined to show her that he's into this for the long haul, that he's going to stay and lead her and follow her everywhere she wants. He still can't believe his luck, and part of him is afraid that he's going to wake up any moment from this wonderful dream of Emma Swan splayed out before him on his bed, naked and defenseless, letting him taste her. But then her soft, rhythmic moans assure him that he's not dreaming; they ebb and flow and come in sync with the strokes of his tongue, the press of his lips.

 

He draws a deep breath, the scent of her arousal filling his nostrils, and continues to lick and suck and nibble, even his teeth coming into play. He can feel that she's warm and swollen and overflowing with need, but he knows that her need goes so much deeper than the crave for physical relief. Continuing to worship her, he feels her muscles strain and tense more and more, her fingers grasp his hair so tightly it's on the verge of painful, and he knows she's about to fall apart, but he doesn't allow it, not yet. He lets go of her nub and nudges her gently with his nose, brushing feather-light kisses along the inside of her thighs and the tender skin of her groin where a vein is thrumming madly.

 

Her sigh of protest fades into one of contentment though when he never stops caressing her; the fingertips of his left hand lightly stroke her right outer thigh while his right hand is resting on her pubic bone, warm and soothing. The grip in his hair relaxes a bit, and he waits for a few seconds until her breathing has become more even again before he resumes his earlier ministrations and focuses once more on her most sensitive spots.

 

He repeats his game, relentlessly, brings her high again to the verge of release, has her teetering there for a bit and then retreats again, his scruff scraping along her inner thighs and at the edge of her sanity. She's getting the hang of it, tenses when he works her up and relaxes again when he soothes her, and even though she protests every time he denies her the ultimate push, he knows she's enjoying this. He's enjoying it, too, but it's taking all of his self-restraint to hold back and concentrate on Emma alone, at least for now. His own arousal matches hers, and whenever she's gravitating closer to the point of falling, so is he; but her vocal and physical reactions to his sensual torment are fueling his fire, and by the time he leads her away from the edge for the third time, he's so hard it's almost painful, and there's no friction to obtain at least a little of relief. It would be so easy – just three more firm and well-placed strokes of his skilled tongue, and he could effortlessly push her over the edge and then plunge right into her while she'd still be quivering, changing the pace from nice and slow to hard and fast. The thought alone has him groan against her skin, and the mental image makes his cock twitch in his sweatpants, but no, this will be done properly, just like he promised.

 

Emma is delirious. All the sensations that are currently assailing her – it's almost too much to bear. She's had men do this to her before, and she mostly enjoyed it as an effective, quick way to work her up and give her that first release really fast, so that she could enjoy toying around for some more. Yes, she's used to take what she thought she needed – but this is so much more, it's what she never knew she _really_ needed... it's being taken care of, _really_ taken care of, and not just having an itch scratched. Killian is working the tension off of her, the ever-present pain and loneliness, he's slowly opening her up, and she can feel all sort of _things_ , broken pieces of her, fall into place with every time he makes her relax after an almost-peak. It's like he's peeling away layer after layer of her covers until she feels raw and exposed, but in a freeing way... and he still continues, showing her that what he discovers is precious. That _she_ , Emma Swan with all her flaws and scars, is precious to him. And it starts to dawn on her that this – _this_ is really the _good stuff_.

 

That's the nearly overwhelming emotional component of it – but oh, the sheer physical effects are just as devastating, in a good way, of course. She remembers that he did say it, that very first evening: _just so you know, I do appreciate an extended foreplay_. And the bastard is surely savoring it. He works her up and brings her to the edge again and again, and every time she can feel that enormous orgasm lurking just around the corner, and oh God, this is gonna be huge... she can almost taste the adrenaline on her tongue, can already feel the telltale prickle on the soles of her feet, the impending relief, the wanton moan of completion already building in her throat... but then he slows down again and pulls away, peppering more soft and gentle kisses on her mound, the silky skin of her groin and the inside of her thighs, and her impending peak ebbs away again. Emma almost sobs in frustration, but only almost, because this is so cruel but also oh so good, _so good_... frankly, the intensity of her feelings would terrify her if she didn't trust Killian so much.

 

After the third or fourth time though she just can't handle it anymore, and she's not ashamed to beg while her fingers are curling in his hair and her hips buck and her back arches off the mattress in a desperate attempt to get closer to his mouth. “Please,” she whimpers hoarsely, “oh God, _please_...”

 

He unlatches his mouth from her flesh and murmurs against her skin, “Emma, love...”

 

With enormous effort, she lifts her head and tries to focus on him which is anything but easy in her current, lust-filled haze. He looks at her with eyes full of tenderness and longing while his fingers are taking the place of his tongue and lips for a moment to keep her teetering exactly where she is – on the verge of bliss, her core clenching desperately. “Just say my name,” he pleads in a husky voice, and what else can she do but oblige? She hasn't called her sex partners by their names in years (sometimes she didn't even know their names, for all that matters), but this now is not even something she has to think about, because this is _Killian_ – she just has to get used to it.

 

“Killian,” she breathes with unashamed urgency, and even through her haze she can see his eyes light up, “Killian... please...”

 

He smiles and lowers his head again, and in the next instant she can feel his lips close around her clit again and work her in earnest, the strokes of his tongues coming fast and firm now, no more teasing in them. And then she already feels her legs start to tremble and her inner walls spasm uncontrollably as the release washes over her and she comes in the most insane rush she thinks she's ever experienced, calling out his name again and again.

 

Killian works her through it gently and brings her down until her body stops shaking and all her limbs feel soft and boneless. Afterwards, she lies there completely motionless for what seems an eternity, unable to move or speak or _think_ , listening to the rush of the blood in her ears slowly calming down.

 

When she feels the mattress shift beside her, she opens her eyes with great effort. Killian is right beside her, propped up on his right elbow, looking down at her with fondness and the tiniest hint of concern, and she loves him for it.

 

When he sees she's present in the here and now, he murmurs softly, “Swan?”

 

She wets her lips and swallows thickly. “That was...”

 

The fine skin around his eyes crinkles, and only a tiny bit of mischief is glittering in their corners when he asks, “Personal enough for you?”

 

Emma frowns in confusion. “What?”

 

He tilts his head. “You told me once that telling someone your first name is personal, but fucking is not.”

 

“Oh.” She finds enough strength in her now to prop herself up on her right elbow, facing him. She does remember that conversation – the first, slightly awkward one they had in their office, three months ago – and so much has changed since then. Not everything, though. “Fucking still isn't personal,” she points out. Then she raises her hand and traces her fingertips along his collarbone before she adds, “But _this_ is.” And with that, she leans forward and kisses him softly, and if she tastes the evidence of his earlier attentions on his lips and tongue, it doesn't bother her one bit.

 

A wide grin lights up his face at her tenderness and her admission that this is far more than just fucking, and he combs his fingers through her disheveled hair and replies, “You bet it is.”

 

She softly bumps her nose against his and snorts a little laugh. “Seems like all I had to do was pick a partner who knows what he's doing,” she comments and expects a little teasing smugness in return.

 

But Killian surprises her once more and shakes his head no. “No,” he contradicts, “all you had to do was take your chance.”

 

“True.” She looks at him again, intensely, and all teasing fades from her eyes when she says his name again. “Killian?”

 

“Aye, love?” He looks at her questioningly, searchingly – ready to fulfill her every wish.

 

“At the risk of sounding profane...” – he raises his eyebrows in question, and she continues, “I need you inside me now.”

 

Emma can see his Adam's apple bob when he swallows. “I was hoping you'd say that,” he admits in a thick voice, and she actually giggles.

 

When she reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants, she notices to her delight that he must have taken them off before he climbed onto the bed beside her, while she was still seeing stars from the amazing orgasm he'd given her. It's the first time she sees him bare, and the sight matches what she felt when he pressed himself against her. His erection isn't in full bloom, but it's already pretty impressive, and she can feel fresh arousal flow through her veins and creep into her limbs. Without further ado, she shifts and crawls backwards up on the bed, because she's still in that weird position with her feet on the floor, and beckons him near with a crooked finger.

 

Killian grins and flops himself around on his hands and knees, following her to the middle of the bed where he sits on his heels, his cock jutting out invitingly. He reaches past her, opens the lower drawer of his nightstand and rummages a bit before he retrieves a condom. He's starting to rip the foil open, when Emma stops him with her hand on his wrist and blurts out, “Don't.”

 

He frowns in confusion. “But I thought you said...” he motions vaguely between them.

 

“Yes.” She smiles and takes the preservative from him, tossing it carelessly on the floor.

 

He doesn't understand anything. “But don't you want to–“

 

“I'm on the pill,” she interrupts, “and I've used protection with everyone before. I'm clean.” She looks him in the eyes and adds pointedly, “And I trust you.”

 

It takes a few moments for him to process what is happening, what gift this once so guarded woman is actually regaling him with. He's like mesmerized, entranced all at once, and he only snaps out of his paralyzed state when Emma leans forward to take his face in her hands and kisses him, tenderly, but with increasing passion, letting herself sink back onto that pillow that bears the indentation of his head and smells of him, pulling him down with her.

 

Killian is absolutely mesmerized by what is happening, fully realizing what this means for her. And then even to voice it: _I trust you_. To hear that almost blows him away. He doesn't even think of questioning her decision by asking if she's sure, because he knows her well enough. For her to utter those words, she must be surer than she's ever been of anything. So, he follows her gentle pull and, carefully lowering himself on his elbows, lets her put her spell on him. Her shining eyes, her soft smile, ethereal almost and yet so _real_. He's overwhelmed not only by the emotion, but also by the desire coursing through his body, thrumming madly in his veins. The moments of rest they allowed themselves after he'd brought her to completion were sorely needed, not only for Emma but also for him and his arousal that was throbbing almost painfully between his legs. While they are exchanging those few, yet so important and elating words, he softens a bit, taking some of the urge away. But the second Emma tells him she wants him inside her, his cock springs back to life again, and _God_ , her words – _I trust you_ – are an aphrodisiac just as strong as the taste of her very self still lingering on his tongue, and now he feels his self-control slowly crumble to pieces beneath her gentle touch.

 

She runs her hands from his face down the sides of his neck, tenderly brushing her thumbs along the cords, then painting the line of his collarbones with her fingertips before laying her palms flat on his pecs, caressing downward. His chest hair feels coarse, yet soft against her skin, and she shivers a little in eager anticipation because she knows she will feel it tickle the sensitive flesh of her bare breasts soon; her nipples pebble at the mere thought. She watches his adoring expression as she continues to paint nonsensical patterns on his waist. The way he looks at her makes her feel strong and weak all the same, but what should be confusing feels so right, because she also feels _so_ cherished.

 

Killian barely moves above her, as if he's afraid to crush her or to make an otherwise wrong move, as if he's afraid to scare her. Like always, she is his first concern. Suddenly, her desire for him is nearly overwhelming her, and she really needs this now. She feels his erection – fully grown again now – brush her inner thigh and reaches down between them with her right hand, because she wants to feel it properly. He draws in a sharp breath when her fingers close around him, and a low rumble blossoms deep in his chest. The sound has something feral about it, and Emma can feel the heat in her belly building up. She squeezes him a little, and it feels amazing; his hot flesh, rigid as steel, is covered by the softest skin, smooth like silk. Shifting a little under him, she works her hand up and down his shaft a few times, making him groan, and when he pleads in a strained voice, “Emma, _please_ ,” she lines him up against her entrance.

 

“I need you,” she whispers breathlessly and lets go of him, “now.”

 

Killian smiles down at her, and as urgent as it was only seconds ago, he can take the time now to tease her back and prolong the moment of their much desired, much needed joining just a little more. He shifts his hips a bit so that his whole throbbing length slides tantalizingly along her clit, and it's Emma's turn to exhale in a hiss now while she arches her back and rocks her hips upwards in a silent plea.

 

But then it's enough with the teasing, and he lines himself up against her center again, where she's slick and oh so ready for him. Despite his raging desire that makes him want to thrust into her in one single, forceful stroke and then just go go _go_ , he slides in slowly, achingly slowly, all the time not taking his eyes off her face for a second. While he feels her tight heat close around him, welcome him and pull him in, he revels in the way her emotions show so clearly and unabashedly on her face. Due to his previous position, he didn't have the privilege to watch her ecstasy unfold while he was pleasuring her into oblivion with his mouth, and now he doesn't want to miss one single moment, for as long as possible. Her head is thrown back, pressing into his pillow, and her eyes closed. The deep flush of her cheeks betrays her arousal as much as the way her inner walls grip him so tightly, and her lips are slightly parted while she exhales in a moan that sounds relieved and wanton at the same time. She wraps her thighs around his waist and links her ankles, her fingers pressing into his muscular back. It seems like a miracle to him that he's the one eliciting all this from her, making her give herself to him so willingly, so trustingly – so vulnerably.

 

When Killian starts to rock his hips against her, slow and tentatively at first, she tightens her grip at him everywhere and moves to get her body in sync with his. It doesn't require for him to slide in and out for more than a few times, before they adjust perfectly to each other, as if they have been doing this for years. With each slide his cock drags deliciously along her walls, and he feels her shudder in response, murmuring curses, pleas and incoherent words only she understands. Having found his rhythm, he leans down to kiss the side of her throat, and she turns her head to the side in an almost brisk move to give him better access. His lips are soft and sensuous against her skin, while the way he relentlessly thrusts into her now has nothing to do with _nice and slow_ anymore. He has been holding back so long earlier that now – when he's finally inside her and she's welcoming him so eagerly – all dams are broken. Emma clearly doesn't mind, if the way she scratches her short nails down his back are any indication. Her breathless voice is music to his ears, and he knows he will make it his mission to make her use it like that very often in the future. He notices with delight that this time he doesn't have to tell her to say his name; it seems his name has become one of her favorite words all of a sudden, and it's almost like she wants to try it out in every variation she can think of, just to hear how it sounds in various versions. She whispers and sighs it, sometimes in delight, sometimes with urge, the sighs grow into moans, and sometimes it's almost like she snaps it at him angrily, mostly with a curse or a call for _God_ accompanying it. He can feel the tension inside her building up, and he can feel the little hairs at the base of his spine bristle, the unmistakable sign that he's getting closer and closer.

 

He drags his tongue along her neck up to her left ear and bites down on the lobe before rasping breathlessly, “Tell me what you need, love..”

 

“Killian,” she pants, “please... everything you got! Give me everything!”

 

Little beads of perspiration form on her upper lip, and he smiles at her words and lifts himself up on his hands, giving himself more leverage. Increasing the pace and force now, he drives into her almost like a madman, unable to rein in his inner animal any longer. Her eyelids start to flutter and her back arches off the mattress while her fingers dig into his hips.

 

“All for you, Emma,” he almost growls in response, trying to muster all his energy and strength, _“all. For. You.”_ Those last words are accentuated by well-placed, deep thrusts that hit the right spot and have her cry out his name as she tenses and then collapses. He needs three of four more pushes right into her aftershocks before his own climax grips him so hard that his limbs go wobbly and he can't hold himself on his hands anymore and slumps down on his elbows again, burying his face against her neck as his hips stutter into her in their last erratic moves before he goes completely still, zoning out into his own private heaven that is this very spot here in Emma Swan's arms.

 

She feels the very same: in this very moment she's at home. For several moments they rest there just as they are; he's still inside her, slowly softening, his face is still snuggled against her neck, and both have their eyes closed from sheer exhaustion and pure happiness, wearing identical smiles. Killian is the first one to regain his senses, and he tenderly brushes his nose against hers and kisses her lips, her forehead and then her still closed eyes. When his lips are caressing her eyelids so softly, she is suddenly overwhelmed by his tenderness and all the emotions it evokes in her. She feels so cherished, safe and at home, it's like she found something she never knew she lost and never knew existed. It's not the physical fulfillment, even though it has been quite spectacular; it's the combination of both, and she understands now what he meant when he told her that after a while of chasing after the easy fun with no strings attached it's just not enough anymore, and this? This is what she wants, and she wants it with him. Hot tears are suddenly stinging behind her still-closed eyelids.

 

Killian seems to sense something, because he brushes his nose against hers once more and says her same softly and with a hint of concern, “Emma?”

 

She opens her eyes, and he notices there are tears in her eyes about to fall. Worry is furrowing his brow, but only for a very short moment, because – as usual – he reads her just right. When one single droplet leaves the corner of her eye and starts to slide down her temple, he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

 

“Scared?” he asks tenderly.

 

She presses her lips into a smile. “Shitless,” she replies honestly and is afraid for a second that it might annoy him, that he might not understand. It's not like she's afraid of letting go and showing herself vulnerable – hell, it would be too late for that – or that she fears he might abandon her. It's more the intensity of her own feelings that's frightening her, what it does to her and what it could make her do. Actually, it's more awe than fear.

 

But Killian isn't annoyed or confused. He just smiles his tiny smile that's barely curling the corners of his mouth, but crinkling the skin around his eyes into a map of affection. “Me too,” he admits, and she's relieved. He understands; of course he does. And then, just to be sure, he adds, “I'm not going to hurt you, Emma.”

 

She smiles and blinks away another tear or two. “I know.”

 

They kiss again, and finally he slips out of her and glides to her side, never letting go of her and pulling her into him. She giggles against his chest, “We're making a mess.”

 

“I have a shower.”

 

She hums in appreciation, a little sleepiness sneaking into her voice. “Is that a promise?”

 

“You'll find out later,” he teases.

 

Two minutes later, she's asleep.

 

When Emma opens her eyes again, she has no idea how long she's been asleep. Her limbs are wonderfully heavy, and she feels refreshed and just a little sore in all the right places. She stretches languidly, and the first thing she notices is that Killian is gone, but she can hear muffled sounds from somewhere in the apartment that clearly indicate someone's around. A look at the alarm clock on the nightstand tells her that she hasn't dozed off for longer than fifteen minutes.

 

She swings her legs out of the bed and spots her jeans and panties on the floor. She picks up the scrap of lace and then, with a smile, Killian's t-shirt that has been discarded not far away, and slips into the adjoining bathroom. After she's freshened up a little, she studies herself in the mirror. Of course she looks like she just rolled out of bed – which she did – with not a lick of make-up on her face and tousled hair; but her flushed cheeks and rosy lips could indicate that she hasn't been _sleeping_ in that bed, and her shining eyes downright betray her.

 

"Heart eyes," she murmurs and shakes her head at herself, "Oh God."

  
She slips on her panties and then pulls the t-shirt over her head, and immediately she's engulfed in his smell like in an embrace. After combing her fingers through her hair, she leaves the bathroom and the bedroom and follows the clattering sounds and the smell of coffee that inevitably leads her to Killian's kitchen.

 

He doesn't notice her because she's barefoot and he's standing at his stove with his back to her, humming and wielding a pan with some content she can't see. He's put on his sweatpants again, and they hang as low on his hips as before, and as she expected – hoped – he's naked from the waist up, a kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder. Emma stands there motionless for a few moments and enjoys the sight – his broad shoulders and slender hips, the swell of the muscles of his back and the way they ripple beneath his smooth skin, and the symmetric dimples at the base of his spine. She doesn't fail to notice the faint red scratch marks she left on his back earlier in the throes of her passion and presses her lips into a blushing little smile. Then his humming grows louder, blossoms into singing, his rich baritone filling the room.

 

_She's got a smile that it seems to me_

_Reminds me of childhood memories_

_Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky_

 

_Now and then when I see her face_

_She takes me away to that special place_

_And if I stared too long I'd probably break down and cry_

 

_Oh sweet child o'mine_

_Oh sweet love of mine_

 

She blushes. _Really?_ Isn't this way too domestic and so absolutely cliché? She could run, she thinks. She could sneak back into the bedroom, get dressed and quietly slip out of the house, and he wouldn't even notice, well practiced tactics from her past. She could do that, and if she'd accidentally landed in bed with Killian some time in the past three months, that's exactly what she would have done: panicked and run.

 

The thing is – she feels all sorts of things about this right now: awe, disbelief, happiness, curiosity, anticipation. Panic isn't one of them.

 

The thing is – she doesn't want to be anywhere else than right here.

 

Still smiling, she steps into the kitchen, the soles of her feet making no noise on the hardwood floor, and slides her arms around him from behind, pressing herself close against his back, to which he jumps a little and almost drops his pan.

 

"Bloody hell, Swan," he curses, "if you're planning to kill me, I could think of a few more enjoyable methods than scaring me to death!"

 

She presses a kiss to his spine. "Hmmm," she hums, "I can think of a few enjoyable things, too, but none of them involves killing you."

 

He chuckles and brings his left hand back to swat her ass. "Minx."

 

"Does breakfast with you always come with a private performance?" she asks and scratches slightly through his chest hair to which he hisses and catches her left wrist.

 

"Easy there, Swan," he warns and finally turns around to face her, his grin widening when he sees she's wearing his t-shirt. "You'll get as many performances as you like," he promises with a cockily raised eyebrow, "but before we burn some more calories we should recharge our batteries a bit." He motions his head to the table he's set up with plates, cutlery, glasses of orange juice, steaming coffee mugs, and the croissants she brought. "Be a good girl and sit down," he teases and adds the pancakes from his pan on top of a stash already piled up on a plate, putting it on the table, too, to complete the breakfast.

 

Emma slumps down on a chair, much too hungry to object.

 

She grabs her coffee and takes a sip; it's perfect and just how she likes it. Then she loads a solid amount pancakes on her plate and takes a bite. They're delicious, which doesn't surprise her in the slightest. Killian watches her with a secret smile, delighted at how natural she behaves. There's no awkwardness at all between them. They munch their pancakes and croissants for a while in happy silence.

 

After a few minutes, she motions her hand vaguely towards all the goods. "Do you always have such a huge breakfast?" she asks and takes another mouthful of pancake.

 

Killian tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow, eyeing her up and down. "Only when I have guests who are dressed like _that_."

 

She narrows her eyes. "And just how often does that occur?" she asks pointedly, but with humor in her voice.

 

He leans in a little and brushes his fingers along her forearm. "I'm hoping for _plenty_ of occasions," he purrs in a low voice, and she feels those butterflies in her belly again.

 

Her lips curl into a smile, and her heart soars when she sees the slightest hint of insecurity behind his cocky tease – it's obvious that he's in this for the long haul and that part of him is still worrying if she can handle that. “I'm sure there will be,” she tells him, which makes his shining blue eyes light up adorably, and then can't resist to tease, “as long as you keep it up with the food.”

 

“You haven't seen anything yet, lass,” he assures with a happy grin, “apart from the pancakes I can offer eggs in any form, bacon, and, on occasion, English scones which can beat any bagel anytime.”

 

Emma chuckles and crunches her nose which gives _him_ butterflies now. “Killian?”

 

“Aye, love?” He looks at her so eagerly she wants to throw herself at him right there and then.

 

“You had me at _pancakes_.”

 

It takes him the blink of an eye to light up like a Christmas tree, his smile threatening to split his face in two, then he averts his eyes and scratches behind his ear. “Then pancakes it is.”

 

He looks at her again, and she's struck by the sincerity and awe she sees in his eyes, the awe, she supposes, that she's here and that she's telling him she's planning to come back again and again. She can see how much she's worth to him and how much he cherishes her.

 

She has to look away for a moment, too overwhelmed by the weight of what transpires here when she realizes that apart from her adoptive parents and Mary Margaret nobody has ever made her feel like that – like _they_ were afraid to lose her and would do anything to keep her in their lives. Drawing a deep breath, Emma looks at him again just to find his gaze resting on her patiently, calmly. She puts her fork down deliberately slowly.

 

“He was my colleague at my first job,” she says spontaneously, and if Killian is surprised by her mentioning another guy out of the blue, he doesn't show it. “I was naive,” she goes on, “thought I was in love.” She shrugs. “I slept with him, and he... had to blab about it all over the office.” At that point, Killian's eyes narrow, and a muscle in his jaw twitches, but he doesn't comment, because he senses she's not done yet with her torrid little story. She snorts. “But I wasn't gonna let him get away with that and was giving him hell... so he deliberately fucked up a case we were working on and blamed it all on me.”

 

“And what did you do?” Killian asks after a while, barely restrained outrage in his voice.

 

Emma sighs and shakes her head. “I knew I was done in that company, so I left. Turned around and never looked back.” She asks herself what it is about him that makes her want to reveal herself to him, to open up completely. She remembers when he downright asked her what had been done to her that made her look at relationships in such a disillusioned way, and she brushed him off. Now she feels that she owes him that much, not because he has a right to know every sordid detail about her past, but because she wants to acknowledge he was right about her all the time.

 

“A bloody bastard,” he comments through gritted teeth, “as I said. And a coward on top.”

 

She nods and shrugs again. “I'm over and done with it,” she tells him and smiles soothingly when she sees his sorrowful frown. “I really am,” she promises and raises her chin. “I'm sure it happened for a reason.” He raises a questioning eyebrow, and in return she explains with a smile, “All the crap that happened to me, all the dodging and running to and fro across the country over the past years... well, in the end, it brought me here.”

 

His face lights up like a Christmas tree, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to say, how he can reciprocate for the gift of her openness, of her bravery to show herself vulnerable to him, but then he realizes that she doesn't expect – or need – anything in return. She already knows. She knows what she means to him, and this revelation of hers was her way to tell him what he means to _her_. So, he just reaches across the table and takes her hand, his thumb caressing the back of her fingers.

 

She squeezes back and leans a little forward, her eyes resting on their joined hands. “About that shower you mentioned earlier...”

 

“Aye?”

 

She throws a look at him from under her long eyelashes and licks her lips, her expression making fresh desire hum deep in his belly and his cock stir between his legs, even before he hears her question. “Is your shower stall spacious enough for you to join me?”

 

He licks his lips and notices with delight how her eyelids flutter for a second when her gaze drops to his mouth. “If we huddle up close,” he replies in a low voice.

 

Emma smiles.

 

They huddle up _very_ close, and she learns more about the perks of having a boyfriend with a musician's hands, his skilled fingers not less talented than his sinful mouth when he presses her against the glass wall of the shower stall and makes her understand the true meaning of a good guitar solo. He caresses, teases, gives and takes until she's breathless and her nerves are singing. After she comes down from her high, this time it's her turn to sink to her knees and worship him with abandon while the warm spray of water rains down on them. His finger entangle in her hair while he gives himself to her ministrations and watches in awe what she's doing to him, until his eyes are unable to focus any longer and he rocks his hips to meet her mouth and she brings him to completion.

 

Later, they find themselves in bed again, and they have made even more of a mess but can't be bothered to go anywhere right now, both on the verge of drifting into a refreshing nap or a long sleep, who even cares? Killian is spooning her from behind, her head resting on his right arm while his left hand is nestled against her chest, their fingers intertwined while a delightful heaviness slowly settles in their bones.

 

 _So this is what it's like when you stay,_ Emma thinks drowsily. _Cuddles and breakfast, half-naked, heart to heart talks, shared showers, and serenades in the morning. Seconds and thirds, and then some._

 

Awfully domestic. Sickeningly sweet.

 

She can probably live with that.

 


End file.
